Harry P and the Deviated Nexus
by Pedran
Summary: Strange nightmares, stranger snake-women, dying family, and (the most annoying) voices in his head. Can nothing be simple for Harry Potter? And what do the drunken ramblings of ANOTHER (long-dead) Seer have to do with it all? M to be safe, not really for kiddies.
1. Strange Nights and Stranger Days

Author's Notes:

- AN -

Maybe it's been done before. Maybe it hasn't. Not sure what else to say that wasn't in the description.

Pairings haven't been decided yet, so honestly, don't ask. I HAVE roughly nine chapters already written and plans to last through roughly fourth year (Starting at the end of first year), but we'll see where and how the story goes.

First FF posted, though I've been writing for... 16 years.

- AN -

- Chapter 1 - Strange Nights and Stranger Day

In the smallest room of a small mundane altogether boring house, a small malnourished black haired boy gasped awake, drenched in sweat and trying to silently curse the effects of yet another nightmare.

His relationship with the family that he shared a home with would never have been considered genial or happy in the first place, but the previous few weeks left them even more strained than ever before. Only a cunning bluff on the black-haired boy's part when first returning from his school for the gifted in northern Scotland managed to keep the cease-fire between him and them in place. He ignored them and they ignored him.

Life is good.

It's a sad, sad fact for one Harry James Potter, last scion and heir of the Most Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter (not that he knew or understood that), for this mutual nonaggression to be a defining factor in the greatest and most wonderful time in all of Harry's memories living with the family that also held residence at Number 4, Privet Drive.

The Dursley Family. Not his family. Never his family. His relatives, yes. His family, no.

"BOY! Enough of that racket! And silence that fool bird!" A heavy slurred voice bellowed from the next room. His Uncle Vernon, a huge walrus of a man with a hideous mustache and one a body placing him firmly on the weight-watchers most wanted list.

"Yes Uncle." He muttered, somehow pitching his mutter loud enough for the overbearing man to hear. The black-haired boy blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the dim while his hand felt along the broken-legged side-table next to his equally well-worn bed for the spell-o-taped pair of glasses that let him see more than three inches past his angular nose.

Sure enough his only true friend and faithful companion Hedwig, a beautiful white-feathered owl with green eyes as piercing as his own and an ego large enough to eclipse his schoolyard rival Malfoy, beat her wings forcefully against her cage as his friend desperately tried to shake him from his own nightmares.

Harry thought, as recently as a few weeks ago, that he had other friends that he managed to make over the past year at his boarding school for the gifted, but... a distinct lack of any communications from his so-called friends rather helped in shooting down those thoughts pretty quickly.

"Shh... Shh..." Harry cooed, getting a undignified look and an angry hoot from the fiercely intelligent harpy of war for his efforts which only earned her an easy chuckle and a gentle smile. "I'm sorry girl. I know you were only looking out for me." Only Hedwig ever tried to help Harry with his nightmares, but being trapped as she currently is, her assistance in forcing him to awaken is few and far between.

If Harry had his druthers, no way on God's green Earth would his majestic and wonderful friend be locked up so carelessly, but unfortunately he didn't. The minute Harry arrived home from school his Uncle had slapped a three inch thick steel lock on her cage door so heavy that Harry was forced to line the backside of the cage with a handful of rocks from the garden just to keep it balanced. Not even the tentative fear his Aunt and Uncle held for him was enough to curb the fact that his best friend remained under lock and key. In fact, everything Harry owned with the exception of a few pairs of Dudley's old cast-off clothes, the broken watch on his wrist that he'd saved from the trash a few years prior, and Hedwig herself stood locked up in the cupboard under the stairs. Sadly, his old bedroom. Since five minutes after Harry's arrival home for the Summer Holidays, despite how horribly the lack of study materials would be affecting his grades when he returned to school on the first of September, all of Harry's most prized possessions ended up completely under lock and key.

Which is something Harry allowed for the simple fact that they didn't know yet he'd been bluffing in the weeks since getting home. To explain, Harry Potter doesn't just attend any old school for he gifted, and there are many, he attends a very special school for the gifted. The only one in existence, to Harry's knowledge. (In reality, there are over a half dozen in Europe alone.)

Harry is a Wizard. A wizard that just finished his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. An amusing title no doubt because the Ministry for Magic, the government serving this hidden portion of the United Kingdom (and more though the boundaries always shift since no-one is exactly certain how far the kingdom of Camelot really covered), has actually banned most forms of Witchcraft as Dark Magic for over two hundred years. Might have something to do with the Eternal Morganna making a rather public Coven that very nearly destroyed the infrastructure of the Wizarding World. That however is a story for a different time.

The Dursleys are, by the whole, terrified off their gourd of Magic in general, and mores to the point Harry's magic after having been trained for a full school year in its use. The aforementioned bluff revolves around the fact that no-one ever bothered to educate the Dursley family only the changes to Wizarding Law since Aunt Petunia's sister, Harry's mother Lily, attended Hogwarts herself back in the 70's. To be specific, the law did not change, but the Aurors (Wizarding Bobbies) actually enforce the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction for Underage Sorcery created by the Ministry for Magic back in 1875 as another stop-gap for protecting the Statute of Secrecy.

In other words, despite his bluff, Harry is toothless and has no intention of illuminating the Durselys concerning that fact.

Perhaps Harry might never have been forced to threaten the now partially cowed family if they raised him better, but such is now he past. As shy and self-effacing as Harry tends to be, engineered entirely by ten awful years of systematic mental and emotional abuse, even two months ago Harry probably would not have had the will or backbone to really stand up to his family.

However an event less than a month prior forced the young newly twelve year old boy to grow up faster than children the world over, coincidentally the same time-frame when his nightmares began again. Harry's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, or DADA for short, died by Harry's hand.

"Happy Birthday to me... Happy Birthday to me..." The far too old for his years child mumbled to himself in a hum when he realized he'd managed to sleep past midnight. Hedwig however wasn't to be deterred by Harry's usual attempts at completely ignoring his moments of weakness and gave her Pet a withering glare accompanied by a strongly worded hoot.

Harry just gave her another lopsided and indulgent smile, idly running his open hand through his hair as he turned to stare out the bolted window. "It wasn't that again Hedwig."

Harry winced as his mind replayed the most prominent nightmare since striking down Professor Quirell a few weeks before. One might think his night terrors would be dominated by the hissing voice of Voldemort echoing out in a horrid hiss from the back of Quirell's head, the feel of the vile man's head turning to goop in Harry's hands as his mother's protection exacted vengeance on the supporter and host to the spirit of her murderer, or even the sight of his best mate Ron lying broken and bloodied after sacrificing himself in order to best Professor McGonagall's insidious life sized chess set of doom.

Unfortunately, Harry's dreams were much more disturbing, painful, and... esoteric.

"It was the dream again," Harry whispered morosely to his friend, running a soothing hand carefully through her plumage comforting the both of them. "Ripped from myself... I fell seemingly forever until it finally stopped. Then..." By now his voice became barely a whisper as a harsh shudder ran through his body. "... then it started burning. My entire body felt like I fell in a vat of acid."

Harry unconsciously ran a hand down his face as he remembered the feel of the acid burning away skin, muscle, sinew, and bone. Echoes of his silent screams trapped in fleshy, goo-covered darkness, his life slowly being squeezed out from pressure on all sides.

Then, like always, the dream ended in a bright flash as he bolted awake.

His only escape from the nightmares came from nightly visits by his new... teacher?... mentor maybe? Regardless of the cloaked stranger's true nature the conversations held in his dreams were certainly thought provoking. What Is Magic? If a man kills to protect his wife, is he a killer or a savior? What is the sound of one hand clapping? If everything is black and white in life, where then do the other colors find their place? His dream-visitor helped solidify and even dissolve many of the thoughts, misgivings, and confusion Harry had over his recent confrontation with the disembodied spirit of Voldemort.

Though the dreams did nothing to alleviate the longing and loneliness growing in his chest till it positively ached from the pain of abandonment.

Harry really wished his friends didn't forget him. After living his entire life relying only on himself, for once it had been a pleasant change over the last year to actually have people looking out for him for once. It was... nice.

He heaved a sigh, resuming the tender ministrations on his only friend. "What's happening to me Hedwig?" He whispered tiredly, getting a solemn and quiet hoot in response. His supposed best friends Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley might have abandoned him, but at least he still had Hedwig.

After a few more whispered assurances to calm both of their frayed nerves he collapsed back on his dilapidated second hand bed and tried to get back to sleep as he stared morosely at the dull ceiling bathed in the calm moonlight. His eleventh birthday appeared to be an anomaly in that he actually had something to celebrate. Meeting his first ever friend Hagrid, a half giant half as tall (and nearly as wide) as the Dursley home, the wonder of finding out his origins as a Wizard and stories of his parents, and the amazing feeling of holding his wand for the first time in the dark and eerily creepy shop of he equally creepy and vampiric Ollivander.

Yet after only a few short weeks filled with drudgery, barely enough food to survive (that he dutifully shared with Hedwig), and constant nightmares his wonderful time spent in the Wizarding World began to feel like some sort of cruel dream suffered from not being quick enough to dodge another swing of Aunt Petunia's cast-iron skillets. Harry knew it was real, and believed in the truth and reality of the things he learned (taking no small amount of glee in torturing Dudley with nonsense words and fake spells muttered under his breath), but the truth is Harry had such dreams all his life.

Flying through the sky on a motorcycle with a dog that constantly barked laughter and mischief, a red-haired woman (that he knew now to be his mother) cooing and singing softly as she played maestro with a wooden stick while the dishes bounced and danced through the kitchen, and more.

Harry didn't even notice the single tear trailing down the side of his face as his eyes closed and he finally succumbed to sleep.

- 1 - 1 - 1 -

The black haired Wizard looked around curiously as he found himself standing outside Hogwarts, a dull grey mist hiding everything in the distance. If it wasn't for the majestic gates he knew so well standing proudly on a few scant feet away he wouldn't even know where he found himself standing.

"Hello?" He asked hesitantly, nervousness making his voice slightly higher pitched than normal though Harry would never admit to such.

"Harry Potter." A deep, gravely intoned in an oddly welcoming tone. The owner of the voice standing at Harry's side remained completely indecipherable. Squinting, Harry could just make out a deep black cloak on the figures body, but the eery black mist emanating from his companion that seemed to float ethereally off the ground completely hid any other distinguishing features besides a pair of softly glowing yellow flames where his... her?... eyes should be.

Strangely, Harry didn't feel the least bit afraid, despite the ominous look of his companion as the stranger's stance and bearing seemed to be one of great patience, power, and wisdom as opposed to the feeling of danger and malice he always felt around Quirellmort through the last school year.

"Walk with me." The cloaked stranger spoke quietly, his bubbling fiery amber eyes turning to walk the path towards Hogsmeade and away from the comforts of Hogwarts (Harry decided to stick with 'he' until otherwise known).

Nodding while keeping his silence Harry followed, used to his companion's oddly reminiscent and distracted behavior after only being visited by the cloaked man a few times in recent weeks. Harry did get more than a little carsick and nauseous as their surroundings spend by around the two of them while Harry and his companion moved forward at a comfortable walk.

A short, or long depending on the point of view, walk later the pair stopped in front of the shop Harry recognized from Diagon Alley where he first bought his school trunk a year prior. His nameless companion just stared up at the displays in the shop window for a minute without comment until Harry's innate curiosity got the better of him and his eyes followed those of the cloaked man until he saw a rather frayed and ugly looking puke-green camping tent in the window with the label 'Super Deluxe Edition'.

"Fascinating what one can accomplish using magic," the man mused, raising a skeletal and blackened arm to point at the display in the window. "This tent for example is one I think you might find purchase for Harry Potter."

Harry's eyebrows rose in confusion and no small amount of disgust, the tent positively reeked of shoddy workmanship on top of far too much use if the rips and holes were anything to go by. Though Harry did get a faint sense of amusement from his companion. "Surely after being friends with a bibliophile for nearly a year you would learn not to judge a book by its cover." Harry blushed from the gentle chiding, nodding his head at the truth behind his companion's words even as the pain of abandonment flared in his chest again. "For only a hundred and fifty galleons a wise young wizard can have a full multiple bedroom home, cleverly disguised as a ratty and forgettable muggle tent and complete with bath, facilities, and possibly even a magically unplottable training room that would not set of the Ministry Trace should it be used for a few more galleons. All available with a handy enchantment to completely hide the existence of the tent from non-Magicals if needed.

Harry thought the very idea of the tent absolutely brilliant, and voiced the thought aloud when the sign next to the tent supported his companions words. Then harsh reality set back in and Harry's shoulders slumped horribly. The shop sat in the middle of London, in the middle of Diagon Alley, hours away from anything Harry could get to or reach.

His companion, seemingly oblivious to Harry's darkened demeanor turned and walked slowly towards the entrance to the one part of Diagon Alley Harry had been thoroughly cautioned to avoid at all costs.

Knockturn Alley.

A fitting name to describe the portion of the Wizarding Marketplace filled with many of the beasties and baddies that haunt the nightmares of the Wizarding World. Banshees, Hags, Vampires, Werewolves, rogue Goblins, and Dark Wizards made their dens in the seedy back-alley from everything told to Harry by his friends and the people he met at Hogwarts.

Yet Harry found himself looking around in interest as the pair walked through the empty streets, his natural curiosity not to be denied when he so obviously remained alone -besides his ghostly mentor- in one of the most feared areas of Wizarding Britain. Overall, Harry really couldn't tell much of a difference between Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley besides the fact that the street remained notably dirtier in comparison. It also held more, not less, street lamps. Odd that.

Cloak, as Harry decided to name his companion on the spur of the moment, turned and stopped again in front of a shop advertising 'Special Spectacles of all Shapes and Sizes'. "It is interesting, is it not how few non-magical ideas have made the transition into Diagon Alley and Hogwarts?" Cloak asked, his burnt and black skeletal arm scratching a thin screeching line down the glass of the shop window. "Optometry is over-rated to Wizards despite how many of them have eye-sight as bad as, if not worse then yours thanks to generations of rampant inbreeding."

Bibliophile. Optometry. Ugh. Harry sometimes wished these strange dreams came with a dictionary to figure out what his companion tended to blather on about.

"Did you know Harry Potter that a first generation magical invented the Knight Bus?" Cloak asked idly, his gliding/floating gait quick enough that Harry felt the need to jog just to keep up. "A fascinating piece of magic to be sure. Just hold out your wand arm with the INTENT for the Knight Bus to appear anywhere in the British Isles and the magic of the bus will immediately pull it to your location by using the same ward-stones spread throughout the Isles to catch Underage Wizards and Witches performing magic in unwarned zones. A few knuts later and you can take a trip wherever you want to go. And the Ministry approved of keeping it around for emergencies, despite the Black Magic inherent in the bus's creation."

They'd been walking again as Harry grumbled silently to himself and the black-haired young wizard crashed headlong into his companion as Cloak stopped abruptly to spin around and stare directly into Harry's eyes just as Cloak's odd-ball observation finished percolating through Harry's mind with the possibilities.

Harry knew what came next. It happened before after all. A question that left Harry perplexed for half the day and confused for two more just before waking up.

He remained distracted however as the pair just walked right out on to Charing Cross Road from Knockturn Alley, completely bypassing The Leaky Cauldron. The Leaky Cauldron, a pub which not only held uncomfortable memories for Harry as his first introduction to the fake of the Boy-Who-Lived phenomenon, but also, as far as Harry had been told by more than a few people, held the only entrance to Diagon Alley from the Muggle World by non-magical means.

"Why after everything you learned growing up do you insist on taking information given to you as fact when you keep finding them to be fiction?"

Harry got a definite sense of both amusement and accomplishment from his companion even as the greying mists around the duo started to squeeze in. "I recommend the Perfect Pinkly Pastel should you wish for a toothbrush."

- 1- 1 - 1 -

Harry bolted upright and wide-awake as the possibilities offered from the strange dream percolated and churned through his mind with the force of a tsunami. He dressed quickly and picked up Hedwig's cage, refusing to leave his best friend behind on the adventure he hoped to be taking shortly. Blinking, he also paused to grab the small leather purse that held the remains of

Getting his hopes up is one thing Harry did far too often for his own good, but in this case he had the perfect plan not to make a fool of himself.

IF Cloak told the truth then all he had to do was hold his hand up and...

BAM!

A sixty foo long triple decked lorie screamed to a halt in a massively loud explosion of sound, blasting Harry off his bed and into the far wall.

The doors opened with a screech and a rather amused and intrigued conductor looked around while repeating what was obviously something he'd given by rote hundreds of times before. "Knight Bus. Emergency transportation for stranded witches and wizards. What's your destination?"

Harry blinked and looked back and forth from the massive bus sitting in his room to the walls and roof that didn't seem any different than they ever were. Reality seemed to warp and bend around the massive bus as tall as Harry's first real friend, a half-giant named Hagrid. Well okay, the bus is probably shorter by three or four feet.

Harry grinned at the bemused conductor. "Charing Cross, London." He said happily, dusting himself off and hefting Hedwig's cage as he stepped foot on to the bus. "I love Magic."

The conductor, one Stan Shunpike by name, probably would have made a big deal about having THE Boy Who Lived climbing on to his bus if Harry hasn't let his inner Slytherin out a little bit by grabbing the only hoodie he ever inherited from Dudley and having it pulled down. The hood lay far enough to not only cover his trademark lightning bolt scar, but shadow the nearly iconic emerald chiseled eyes that he inherited from his mother.

"That'll be seven knuts. Thirteen sickles'll getcha a cuppa hot cocoa, or fifteen for hot water'n your choice of any color toothbrush." The obviously bored, yet still bemused conductor droned off.

His curiosity peaked at the word toothbrush, Harry snorted and tried to keep a straight face as he reached for his coin purse while asking for the Perfectly Pink Pastel toothbrush.

What the young wizard didn't expect was for the conductor to freeze and turn chalk white, staring at Harry like he'd seen a ghost. The now shivering and clearly frightened wizard behind the wheel picked up a ruler length square box before stuttering out. "T-That'll b-be f-fffive g.. ggalleons gov'na." He asked with a great deal of trepidation, nervously gripping his left elbow while holding the box out to Harry.

The young wizard cocked his head to the side curiously, but withdrew the requested galleons despite the massive jump in price as his curiosity literally leapt through the roof. The exchange finished Harry made his way towards a seat but found himself flying into it at top speed as the bus accelerated by insane speeds without even a hint of inertial dampeners.

By the time Harry wondered how in Merlin's name he understood or knew when inertial dampening is the bus screeched to a halt and the conductor nervously stuttered out their destination as Charing Cross Road, London.

Harry thanked him politely as he stepped off the bus, eyed the box in his hand with curiosity. It opened to reveal a... wand. The tag attached to the wand startled Harry more than the wand itself.

Untraceable.

Three initials engraved in fine golden filigree around the handle gave the only indication about the previous owner of the wand now in Harry's possession.

R. I. P.

Well, either initials of the last owner or the previous owner was morbid. Considering some of the things Harry learned about the Wizarding World over the last year... Harry wouldn't bet against the latter.

However neither completely mattered to Harry at that moment because he felt a euphoric rush of orgasmic glory rush through his being, a huge shower of bright green and gold sparks erupting ten yards into the air. A few Muggles shot him curious glances, but for the most part Harry remained ignored.

With a much more confident smile on his face and a near-swagger in his step from the outpouring of confidence he received after being reunited with his magic, Harry strode through the portal into Knockturn Alley with his new wand drawn and a carefree smile on his face. His first destination would be the one and only Wizarding Bank, Gringotts.

Gringotts being called a 'Bank' is a misnomer as it is not in fact a Bank. Calling Gringotts a Bank is the same as calling Harrods a restaurant because they serve food. Rather misleading is it not? Gringotts is in fact the home of the entire Goblin Clans of the British Isles. Warding services, mercenary work, enchanting and disenchanting, curse-breaking, smithing, bartering, gambling, and more are only a few of the services the Goblin Nation offers through their hallowed halls. Basically, if its a service they can charge something for, the Goblins will provide it. The refuse assassinations or the like not because of the money, but because of honour. There is no honour in having someone else deal with your enemies and the Goblins refuse to sully their warrior's spirit by serving or providing such services to the most disgusting race on the planet, Wizards.

Harry however doesn't care about any of that. Not really. Harry's only interest in Gringotts on his trip today involves only the Trust Fund piled high with at least fifty thousand galleons sitting in the young boy's Vault.

Today is July 31, 1992.

Twelve years prior the world welcomed a black haired screaming and kicking green eyes baby boy. Today, Harry intends to do something he'd only thought of in his dreams.

His green eyes nearly glowed as he stared at the piles and piles of gold in the cavernous vault that possibly even dwarfed the Great Hall by the sheer size of it.

Today Harry James Potter would buy himself something for his birthday.

Merlin knows no-one else will.

- 1 - 1 - 1 -

Retracing his steps to the trunk shop gave Harry another pleasant birthday surprise.

The tent in the window might have been the deluxe model, but there were far more choices to choose from, including trunks with a similar function though the salesman made it very clear that prolonged stays in the trunks could lead to permanent magically induced claustrophobia because unlike the tents which held many high level space expansion enchantments and charms, the trunks were actually made with mokeskin lining and the salesman admitted not even they understood the mechanics behind mokeskin. Especially the ethereal, possibly astral placement of the contents of belongings stored within the trunks. The salesman admitted, rather sheepishly mind you, that the last record of someone attempting to live within a mokeskin trunk simply vanished one day leaving behind only his clothes and a pile of lacewings. He did however assume Harry that no non-sentient item had ever been lost.

The moke is an intriguing creature and one grown only at great personal peril. The moke looks, by any scrutiny, like a small white rabbit with a bumpy unicorn horn on its head, antlers, and eight foot foot incisors. Harry blinked at the last item, especially with the salesman gleefully comparing the white demons to be approximately the same size as Hedwig. The moke will eat literally anything and everything nearby not made of stone, including but not limited to: steel, wood, flesh, grass, dirt, hair, and most frighteningly people. The only reason the shop even offers the trunks at such bargain prices is the routine delivery of cured mokeskins by Xeno Lovegood, owner of the Quibbler.

Harry blanched when the shopkeeper pulled out a picture of a skinned moke for Harry to compare to. The first picture showed an absolutely adorable tiny snow-white bunny with a cute pudgy horn on its forehead munching happily on a four foot thick sheet of steel. The second picture, taken at a considerable distance, showed an ant-sized man in clothes so eye-watering that Headmaster Dumbledore would be jealous standing next to a demonic grinning skull eight times his size with eight foot incisors and a matching horn in the middle of its forehead that looked more like a pimple than a horn.

Harry swiftly finished his purchases at that point, leaving with a six partition trunk left inside his new three bed, two bath tent which he placed conveniently inside his new complimentary mokeskin pouch that hung from his neck by a leather thong.

Harry happily walked out of the shop a very content young man, albeit slightly poorer by eight hundred galleons. The single largest purchase Harry ever made in his life.

His next stop, after drawing his new wand with his left hand, was the eye-glass shop Cloak pointed out to him in his dream the previous night.

Sally's Special Spectacles held another pair of revelations in the form of the Oculus Potion. Guaranteed to correct any and all damage to eyesight other than natural degradation. The owner, Sally, had unnaturally large beady black eyes that gave Harry the impression of a inquisitive owl even without the two inch thick monocle she wore that made her eye seem as large as Harry's head.

Inquisitive appeared to be a perfectly apt name to describe the meek mousey, looking woman that Harry estimated to be in her late twenties at the oldest. As soon as the bell rang over the door she spun away from a pile of dusty crushed glass and fixed Harry with an unblinking stare that made him feel like a rat under a microscope. After roughly a minute of uncomfortable silence where the woman did not actually blink once she sniffed loudly and started grabbing a mass of potion ingredients while grumbling loudly.

"Excuse me?" Harry asked politely, despite his growing irritation at being dismissed out of hand.

The woman fixed Harry with as stern glare from her un-monocle-ed eye in a rather disconcerting fashion while continuing her work. "Sally wonders why the son of hooligan would be in Sally's home. Hooligan ruined Sally's life and now hooligan's son wants something from Sally."

It was more of a statement than a question, but Harry felt absolutely flabbergasted. Was the hooligan his mother? His father? Before he could voice his question she continued, still watching him with a one-eyed, unblinking stare. "Sally remembers hooligan's mother fondly. Hooligan's mother never kicked Sally. No she did not."

Harry couldn't help himself. "You knew my grandmother? What was she like?"

Sally finally blinked before focusing both of her eyes back on Harry as if trying to solve a puzzle. "Of course Sally knew hooligan's mother. Hooligan's mother was wonderful woman. Classmates." Here she cocked her head to the side like an owl, the ball apparently in Harry's court as it were in the conversation.

Harry swallowed nervously. He'd never thought of his grandparents before. Despite his much he truly and admittedly wanted a family, Harry learned at a very early age that family isn't exactly something important, or more specifically, he was not in any way shape or form allowed to ask about them. He swallowed again. "W-what was her name?"

Sally's eyes narrowed dangerously, making Harry even more nervous and reminding him of all the dangers in Knockturn Alley Hagrid and Ron tended to moan on and on about. "Sally is... confused." She finally said at length, taking on a much more pensive expression and allowing Harry to visibly relax. "Last of Potter asking about Potter nee Black."

She folded her arms and gave up whatever work she needed to do and rocked back on her heels slightly. "Potters and Potters." She mumbled, her head still cocked to the side in a curious expression. "Sally knew mother of hooligan name. Mother's name Dorea Potter nee Black." She finally said, waving one hand negligently. "Sally is busy. What does son of hooligan want with Sally?"

Harry blinked in surprise that she actually asked a question before finally tapping his glasses with a finger. "My... Uh... Glasses." He said at length, not exactly sure why he decided to follow Cloak's footsteps and get himself a new pair beyond the basic fact that his own glasses were old years ago.

She nodded sharply and her wand appeared in her hand like magic, a spell colliding with Harry's face before he had a chance to react. His own wand came to his hand almost instinctively and he crouched away nervously even as his eyesight exploded in a plethora of colors. Effectively blinded, Harry tried to find the door behind him as fear blossomed in his chest.

He need not have worried as the eccentric shopkeeper only sent a diagnostic charm his way, but Harry didn't know that until she spoke again just as Harry fingers found the door. "Hooligan's son doesn't take care of his eyes." He felt her well calloused hands grab him by the neck and drag him to a chair before forcing to sit down in it. The colors finally started to fade the moment before his glasses were snatched from his face, leaving him nearly as blind as he was moments before. "Green eyes." She commented idly, and he could see her fuzzy indistinct outline leaning over and peering into his eyes. "Sally thinks Green will need Oculus Potion. Much damage. Green should take better care of his eyes."

The next hour was a whirlwind of spells, pokes, prods, potions, a clipping of his hair, a drop of his blood, and (most embarrassingly) a cup of his urine for the creation of the set of potions needed to correct the damage done to his eyes. Harry thought his cheeks would explode from how red they became when Sally handed him a muggle flask and instructed him to fill it in a no nonsense tone while poking ... little Harry for emphasis. Getting the distracted and work-focused eccentric to point him towards the lavatory instead of being forced to fill said container in the main room of the workshop was even more embarrassing.

When he asked Sally what damage would be corrected he got a surprisingly mundane, and direct, answer. It boiled down to genetics, curses, and environment. Genetic deficiencies, as prevalent in the Potter genes, could only be corrected through the use of lenses and spells. Whereas damage from the environment such as chemical damage, under-development due to acute and prolonged malnutrition -Harry refused to even look at Sally during THAT statement-, viral exposure, and improperly healed blood vessels bursting within the eyes however could all be corrected through a properly developed Oculus Potion. Curses and spell damage, depending on their severity, were unable to be healed by conventional means or spells because the bodies magic considers eyesight to be secondary to protecting the brain from magical assault and tends to sacrifice the eyes entirely.

Whatever her frivolities and eccentricities, Sally really knew her eye-care.

In the end, Harry left with better eyesight than he could ever remember having before, a pair of tasteful unisex silver spectacles that Sally pointed out his grandmother Dorea favored, a spare pair with the traditional black frames his dad favored tucked in his mokeskin pouch, and more than a few questions about the "wonderful woman completely unlike her hooligan bratty child".

He headed for the exit and froze in shock at the fingernail thick scratch running down the window that he KNEW wasn't there before he walked in. Sally distractedly fixed it with a quick Reparo Charm, but that didn't change the greater number of questions running through the black-haired young wizard's head.

Striding back towards Diagon Alley with a complete lack of attention to his surroundings actually worked in Harry's favor as he never saw the pair of Hags that almost managed to grab him before he exited into the main portion of Diagon Alley to engage in a Hermione worthy quest. The silencing spell that slammed into the pair moments before they erupted into half a dozen pieces might have had something to do with it.

After lunch and some ice cream at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour that is. It was well past noon and Harry had been running around Diagon Alley since seven o'clock this morning.

Cloak's question and Sally's biting words left Harry with a desire to do something he never had the chance to before.

Harry wanted to know about the Potters.

- 1 - 1 - 1 -

Flourish and Blott's proved to be a supreme disappointment in locating any sort of history on his family.

After a quick lunch and a stop by Eyelops Owl Emporium while it was on his mind, Harry made the soon to be disappointing trip to Flourish and Blott's. The Eyelops trip being one of necessity rather than Harry's intuitive skills in the needs of his beloved, revered, amazing, intelligent, and modest owl. In other words the drip of red coming from his earlobe gives credence to the means Hedwig decided to use to remind her Pet that his responsibilities to her were more important than any silly desire to to look through stacks the paper used to clean her cage all bound together. Hedwig enjoyed a good book as much as the Boy-Who-Lived, but she knew her boy is just a likely to loose himself in the bookstore for the next for hours as his friend Hermione is wont to do.

Little known fact about one Harry James Potter. Before Hogwarts, his only real escape from the Dursleys, Dudley's 'Harry Hunting' Gang, and the nagging old bats around the neighborhood that Aunt Petunia convinced of Harry's inherent criminal insanity happened to be the small branch of the Greater Whinging Library a few blocks from his jolly old home at Privet Prison.

When Harry entered Hogwarts, he actually already read every book on his booklist front to back just to be ready for class. An impressive feat considering most of his supplies were locked in his old bedroom (the cupboard) since he got back from the Diagon Alley trip with Hagrid. Serve up Quirell's incompetence, Snape's third and fourth year level questions piled on to his typical levels of vitriol, McGonagall and Flickwick's no idiot left behind policy, Hermione's nagging, and Ron's apathy, stir slowly and serve. Ten months after being good enough, cunning enough, and well read enough to intentionally earn a C on any given assignment to avoid the worst of the Dursley's hate-mongering should he accidentally score better than Dudley on an assignment or test and the world has a new and much worse for it Harry Potter.

In other words, Harry Potter prior to Hogwarts was a bibliophile nearly on the level of Hermione herself, albeit for different reasons. Despite hiding the fact so his first real friend his own age, Ron for those who are interested, Harry Potter is a very intelligent young boy. Obviously he isn't on the level of his other friend Hermione Granger, because really, who is?, but Harry when he chooses to put his mind to it can show an inherent insight and sharp-wit that so defined his mother Lily to the many who knew her growing up. Amusingly (and sadly), Harry and Lily's constant trips to the library at a young age were actually spurred on by the same person. Petunia.

Go figure.

Thus, when a rather interested and focused Boy-Who-Lived-Through-Durskaban entered Flourish and Blott's, he didn't exactly expect the deep-seated disappointment of not finding ANYTHING about his family and origins anywhere.

When questioned, the pimple faced girl behind the counter that refused to even look away from her Witch Weekly magazine told him that if he wanted Ministry controlled reading he should look somewhere else.

"Why in Merlin's name would the Potter family history be Ministry controlled reading?" The thoroughly confused boy sputtered out, shocked to find out that anything outside of the single line inside the three books Hermione droned off to him on the train ride last summer would be a matter under Ministerial censure.

The blonde ditz jus flipped a bang and told him to try Obscurus Books.

Which is why, after being thoroughly underwhelmed by Flourish and Blott's lack of books outside the school season Harry ending plodding his way back near the entrance to Knockturn Alley for the bookshop Hagrid steered him away from the year prior.

Looking around at the mass of dust covered tomes, moth eaten rolls of yellowed parchment, and moldy leaflettes, Harry understood a little better Hagrid's reasoning.

"We're closed." A gruff annoyed voice bellowed out from the back room, interrupting Harry's perusal of a book on Fae history near the front.

"I'm sorry sir," Harry called back politely, looking over his shoulder to see the open sign still lit in the window by a plethora of tiny naked fairies. "The Open sign was lit. When will you be open?" Harry questioned, already annoyed by the store owner's brittle demeanor before even seeing the man.

A dully repeated thump echoed out from the darkened hallway leading to the back room as a peg-legged hunchback hobbled into view to throw Harry a glare. "When I bloody damn well feel like it, that's when!" The man announced pointedly, reinforcing his statement with his crutch aimed at the door.

After the last few weeks at Durskaban, topped by the lack of sleep from constant nightmares, layered with the desk-jockey bint's lack of help, and rounded off with finding NOTHING on his supposedly ancient family, Harry's grasp of his patience and polite persona was tentative at best when he entered the store in a frustrated huff.

"You know what. I don't care. I only came in here to try and find books about my family's history you old codger!" he huffed, spinning on his heel and ripping the door open before throwing a glare over his shoulder. "I'll just take my money elsewhere!"

Harry barely managed half a step out the door when a greedy voice called out in a curious tone. "Money? Paying be you boy? Not another damn 'research' project where you look through all my books and get your grubby, greasy fingers all over my beauties and leaving them wherever you bloody please, hmm?"

Harry frowned and cocked his head slightly. Other than the Hogwarts library, he'd never heard of a PUBLIC library in the Wizarding World since arriving. Supposedly, families jealously guarded their private libraries, but no-one ever spoke of a public one. Not even Hermione. His feet stopped and he looked over at the grubby hunchbacked man, threadbare clothes that looked far too old even with the miracles of magic hung from his frame. Harry could practically feel the waves of hope and longing coming from the man. Not greed oddly, just hope.

For the sake of finding out something, ANYTHING, on his family, the black haired boy bit back his retort and nodded guardedly. "I invented to buy a few books on my family history if I can find the bloody things." To reinforce his point, Harry stomped his right leg slightly to let the bag of gold in his pocket tinkle.

The old codger squinted at Harry's hood-covered form before breaking out in a wide, black and yellow toothed grin. "Why didn't you SAY so!" The man practically cooed, giving off a very creepy vibe. "And WHAT family might that be boy?" The man asked curiously, hunching over more and hobbling nearer to get a look at Harry's face.

With no small amount of trepidation, Harry lifted the old away from his face while straightening his back and facing the man proudly. One the spur of the moment, Harry decided he even wanted to know about the family his grandmother came from as well.

"Potter Sir. I want to know about the Potter and Black families."

- 1 - 1 - 1 -


	2. Durzkaban

Author's Notes:

Hmm... Not much to add here. I'll probably post through Chapter 5 as I beta my work over the next week or so, don't be surprised if it takes longer. I do work full time and take college.

Story of the ...chapter... : ANYTHING by Radaslab Good author. Apparently HATES Dumbledore with an all encompassing passion. Just saying.

- AN -

- Chapter 2 – Durzkaban

In a room of infinite darkness resembling space in so much as there held no apparent floor, roof, or walls a pair of sparkling rocks gleamed wickedly as an antithesis to the emptiness extending around them on all sides. One Emerald, for rebirth, rejuvenation, and return. The other Topaz, for steadfastness, strength, and loyalty.

Or so they say...

A whispering, sluggish greyish smoke appeared a few feet below the gemstones and slowly crawled up the blackened and burnt wooden chair until vanishing behind the stones which began to gleam brighter.

The raw living intelligence within the stones and smoke would have been grinning with a feral dangerous smirk if it had lips, a mouth, or a face.

The whispering, gleeful cackling laughed echoing across the expansive nothingness left little to the imagination however.

- 2 - 2 - 2 -

A pensive Harry Potter returned to Privet Drive, via Knightbus, and carefully snuck over the fence into the back yard, curious about the hammering coming from upstairs, but not curious enough to put off setting up his tent while he had the time.

The salesman had been quite clear that the Notice Me Not enchantment wouldn't take effect until he finished setting up the tent and palmed a specific rune on the inner wall.

The codger at Obscurus Books, with the amusing name of Odiferious Obscurus, had willingly shared his knowledge on the Potter family history, but apologized profusely for not having or being able to sell him books with his families history or information in them. The new Ministry Law, passed apparently only a month prior had been reinforced with an Auror escort to remove all books concerning the Potter family history from his shelves. Apparently some old windbag in the Wizengamot had the WONDERFUL idea that the history of the Potters might be in danger of being subverted for nefarious means and should be removed from general knowledge for the protection of their hero and the last Heir of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Potter.

The codger did sell him a book written by his grandmother Dorea with a number of creepy-guy-at-the-playground winks while commenting that the book was not TECHNICALLY history.

'Nott Longbottoms, Gaunts Abbots, Bulstrodes Potters, and Blacks Bones - A Genealogy of the Most Ancient and Noble Houses'

Despite his normally venomous lack of interest in anything to do with the Purebloods of the world, there was no way he could resist purchasing the book when his fingers had brushed along the gold filigree emblazoning the author's name.

Dorea Potter nee Black.

His grandmother, if the text was to be believed, had published this book in 1975. The self-updating Potter family tree inside the front cover that had him so enraptured indicated she had only published the book months before her death. His fingers idly traced the name Peverell and Gryffindor before his eyes widened in amazement and happiness for a moment when he realized that the bookstore owner could not see the family tree like Harry did. His grandmother practically made the book just for him. Harry got quite a shock that his grandmother had been a Slytherin, but considering the fact that even the fabled Sorting Hat tried to steer him towards the traditionally dark and predominately Pureblood House of Hogwarts Harry figured that the Malfoy's of the world must not have been quite as vocal and... running the place as it is nowadays.

The less said about the Black Family the better. Odiferous had dozens of books available on the family darker in practice than their namesake and the old man practically cackled in greed as he tried to pawn off a number of creepy, deadly, and dark books on Harry before he managed to escape. Though Harry couldn't stop himself from buying the copy of Moste Potente Potions when he noticed the instructions for Nutrient Potions in the table of contents (one of the VERY few books in the Wizarding World to actually have such).

Harry actually thought a lot however about his grandmother's status as a former Slytherin during the ride back to Privet Prison. It took most of the trip for Harry to come to the realization that other than Malfoy's Cronies and the Slytherin Quidditch Team (who didn't acknowledge his existence until his debut as the Gryffindor Seeker on their life-long rival's team), the House of 'dark' wizards tended to ignore Harry completely. The realization, accompanied by Cloak's voice echoing in his head again about listen to lies and making his own decision, made for a pensive little Gryffindor.

But even his newfound interest in his family's apparently illustrious history, across all four Houses of Hogwarts and even a few Ministers, couldn't derail Harry's excitement about the third bedroom in his 'tent'.

The Training Room.

Harry managed to come back to himself and felt a great surprise when he realized he'd managed to completely build the tent with no-one the wiser and his mind miles from the task at hand. Years spent as a practical slave to the Dursley's every need certainly held some benefits as the painful manual labor of building a three man hundred and fifty pound tent with no assistance had been done almost instinctively.

"BOY!" A furious voice bellowed from only feet behind him and Harry took that as his queue to dive head first through the flash and slam his wand-tip into the rune needed to activate the enchantments. "What the devil is that... is that... Oh bloody buggering bother it all!" Harry watched from the open flap of the tent with no small amount of nervousness as his Uncle went from rampaging rhino levels of anger to abject frustration and confusion. "... ... That's right!" The whalish man said abruptly snapping his ham hock sized fingers, causing a nauseating flapping sound as the mass of fat between his two fingers slapped together. "I still need to double check Dudley's outfit to make sure he's ready for the Mason's visit.

Harry breathed a heavy sigh of relief as his Uncle turned about and lumbered back into the house without another word of glance at the massive tent now taking up three-quarters of his backyard. In his relieved slump, Harry gave no notice to the slight tingle from his new wand as he bumped another rune on the other side of the tent flap.

His emerald eyes were instead watching a strange variation to one of Aunt Petunia's prized bushes. A pair of large bulbous green eyes were watching him back.

After waiting a few minutes to see what, if any, action the owner of said eyes might take, Harry finally turned away and closed the flap.

The Training Room called.

- 2 - 2 - 2 -

It took a few minutes for Harry to shake off the effects of his late afternoon nap and he yawned while looking around the familiar grey expanse to divine where he actually might be this time.

Hearing a trickle of water, he crossed the dirty tile floors to approach an... interesting gold lacquered fountain. Interesting and honestly rather offensive. Possibly even cast gold from the look of it.

Arrayed around an arrogant, angry looking wizard were a plethora of magical creatures in awed supplication of the bold looking man holding up his wand. Having been in the presence of Goblins no less than four times, Harry could honestly say he couldn't imagine a single member of the fierce warrior race he had come to know bowing and prostrating themselves in such a fashion as the moronic bestial looking caricature of a goblin represented. The fawning flighty looking well-endowed witch gave the most potent description of sexism in a silent display and the centaur, being a warrior-seer race of the same level of the goblins, is equally as offensive. The last little figure with bulbous eyes wearing a ratty torn loincloth drew Harry's curiosity as he'd never seen such a creature, but the eyes were certainly familiar.

He'd only been staring at a very similar pair of them hours before.

"Harry Potter." a quiet reserved voice intoned in greeting. "Fascinating creatures house-elves." Cloak's calm voice spoke beside him after a few minutes, giving a name to the only being on display that bore no recognition for Harry. "Are you familiar with the purpose of an alternator Harry?"

Harry squinted his eyes and cocked his head slightly at the usual non-sequitur to ponder the question before finally shaking his head negatively. He certainly had been forced to change the alternator on Uncle Vernon's car a couple of times, but the most he knew about it is that a car can't run without one.

A familiar sense of amusement emanated from his companion. "An alternator is hooked up to a car's battery. When the car is started, a large amount of power is drawn from the battery and fed through the alternator. The alternator takes that power and uses it to create more electricity. Eventually feeding back an equal amount and recharging the battery while keeping the car running without touching the battery again. Better designs in alternators will soon more to the point where car's batteries will become smaller and smaller as less power is needed to initially start the engine."

Harry nodded to indicate he understood Cloak's meaning, but but didn't fool himself for a minute that he understood why his enigmatic companion felt the need to blather on about car parts. While listening with a cocked ear, he read the small (also gold) plaque attached to the now identified house-elf's back like a cattle-brand. 'All proceeds are Donated to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.'

"The house-elf is a similar creature. Once known by a far different name with a much different purpose, Wizards far in the past bound the cheerful race of laborers as slaves to themselves when the Statute of Secrecy was passed to prevent their extinction."

Harry perked up and blinked rapidly. How could enslaving an entire race possibly be a good thing?

"You are curious, no?" Cloak asked in amusement, earning a scowl. "The... summarized version is that non-Magicals did not understand the purpose and abilities of the pacifistic race and began slaughtering them wholesale as 'demons' and 'freaks of nature'. So now they serve, and are bound, to various Wizards throughout the Isles as slaves."

"But what does that have to do with cars?" Harry asked.

"To put it simply, a house-elf is an alternator. The more powerful the Wizard, or house, to which they are bound, the more powerful house-elves themselves become. But, as with everything in magic there must be a balance. House-elves live to work. The dirtier a room they must clean, the happier they will be. Yet should a wizard, or house, have too many elves, or too little work, the poor beings degenerate into madness and become little more than Gremlins."

"Huh."

"Indeed. This is not without benefit for the Wizard or home either. Homes with house-elves practically radiate magic, strengthening simplistic wards to unseen heights. Wizards with multiple elves bound tend to live much longer and wield greater levels of power than their peers. Your Headmaster, I believe, makes great use of this."

Harry scowled again at another of Cloak's polite and innocuous insults against Headmaster Dumbledore, but couldn't stop the question that flowed from his to tongue. "Hogwarts has house-elves?"

Cloak nodded, an altogether nauseating sight as the black gooey mist around him roiled and boiled around his head. "Indeed. Your friends he Weasley Twins could introduce you as many of the elves spend their time in the Hogwarts Kitchens."

Harry rolled back on his heels to think on his companion's words. It sometimes felt like the more he learned about the magical world, the less he really knew. Harry pictured himself for a moment as a lost boatman at sea in a life-raft, doing his best to keep his head above water in a storm of information.

Cloak stance changed slightly and put Harry on guard. "You must always be weary when dealing with the elven race. They are descendants of the Fae, a capricious and mischievous race. Many of the elves are happy and content with their lives, but a select few chafe under the chains that keep them alive."

"What do you mean?"

"Have you ever heard the tale of the genie of the lamp?"

"Um... Yeah. Aladdin right?"

Cloaked chuckled. "Not exactly. Let me tell you the real story of the Djinn of the Lamp, Djinn's being a distant cousin of the powerful elven race and thus pertinent to our discussion. A great many years ago, a powerful Wizard summoned a Djinn to grant him wishes and used great and powerful evil magic to bind him to a lamp for all eternity. The Djinn, a powerful and prideful creature obviously disagreed. When the magic settled, the spell-crafter summoned his new pet and made his first of three wishes. 'Genie!' he called out, rubbing the rune on the lamp that would activate the powerful compulsions built in. 'I wish for you to make me Immortal!' "

Harry sat cross-legged on the floor of the Ministry Atrium and listened in rapt attention. Cloak never told a story before, and the... man appeared to have a natural gift for it.

Cloak chuckled darkly and started in a deep, evil sounding voice, " 'Foolish Mortal! To bind ME to such an existence shows only the arrogance of your race! Let your wish be granted!' " At crescendo of his speech, Harry started leaning forward eagerly, curious and gleeful to learn what the obviously powerful genie would do to punish his jailor in a way only children can. "And with a flash of astral magic more powerful than any Wizard, Witch, Goblin, or even house-elf could conjure the Wizard was gone. In his place sat a lumpy grey rock the size of a pebble which the genie tossed into the nearby river before the magics of the lamp could imprison him once more. For you see, this rock is special in that nothing can remove it from the Earth for all time, leaving the trapped and now quite mad Wizard voiceless, magicless, and alone for all time. Immortal, as asked."

Harry gulped audibly. That...is a horrifying fate. For anyone.

Cloak acknowledged that Harry understood the lesson behind the story when another nod. "I have been thinking Harry Potter." He stated after skipping a disturbingly grey lumpy pebble across the water of the fountain. "You have... an... admirable sense of morals and outlook on life." Cloak said haltingly, laying a blackened skeletal arm on his shoulder in a fatherly manner. "Happiness, despite where our conversations might lead is very much in your grasp."

Harry looks up at his companion curiously, trying to see more than the flickering flaming embers of his eyes as Cloak heaves a sigh. "However... Hmm... This is more... difficult than I imagined." The young wizard could only look on in curiosity, worried about whatever ghosts may be plaguing his dream-guide.

Cloak lifted his arm and walked... er... glided towards the greying misty darkness surrounding the duo, pausing just before he vanished from Harry sight altogether. "You should visit your library and find a copy of the fairy tales written by the Brother's Grimm. In the Wizarding World you have entered a society much unlike your own. There are lessons to be learned from there stories, tales, and fables."

Cloak stepped into the mist with a final question floating out to the Gryffindor. "Ponder this young Harry Potter. What is the difference between Aesop's Fables and the Tales of the Brother's Grimm?"

- 2 - 2 - 2 -

Harry woke with a snort gasping for air from the small leathery hand holding his mouth and nose closed.

When his eyes finally adjusted to dim lighting of his new bedroom, he found curious site of a bouncing ball of living energy covered by a rather ratty and filthy pillowcase riddled with holes. Harry lay curled up on an old pile of Dudley's cast-offs, because as awesome as the tent is it does not include furnishings outside of a 'stasis box' (the Wizarding version version of a fridge, pantry, breadbox, and warming plate wrapped up into one apparently).

So when the weird little creature ('house-elf' Harry reminded himself) bounced off of Harry's face and bowed repeatedly, Harry was actually forced to scoot back slightly to avoid getting beaned in the face by the two foot tall elf's long flapping ears.

Harry, ever his noble self, eyed a sleeping Hedwig on her stand to make sure his visitor did nothing to her while he slept before trying to address the elephant in the room. Or rather, house-elf. "Um... Who are you?" He asked wearily, Cloak's recent rendition of a horrid twist on Aladdin fresh in his mind.

"Harry Potter sir!" The impish, and possibly touched, creature shouted eagerly, reminding Harry for a few seconds of a toddler on speed. "Ever so long has Dobby been wanting to meet the great Harry Potter sir... Dobby is so excited Harry Potter sir!"

Harry blinked. "Um... Right." Coming to full wakefulness, Harry figured he might as well see what the flighty little creature wanted with him. Dumbledore assured him the protections around the house wouldn't let in anybody that wanted to do him harm after all. "Well... Take a seat I guess." Harry said with only a hint of annoyance, making a casual gesture towards the floor as he sat up and lounged back, carefully grasping his wand.

To Harry's confusion and horror the loud little creature burst into tears, startling the boy immensely.

"Sit down Harry Potter says!" Dobby wailed, the tears running tracks rather quickly down his cheeks. "Never has Dobby been so... so... Dobby knew the great Harry Potter was a great wizard, but to invite Dobby to sit down..."

"I'm sorry?" Harry interrupted, wondering if he somehow broke some sort of cultural rule when addressing a house-elf. "I... I didn't mean anything bad by it. Please stop crying." Harry pleaded.

"Bad?..." Dobby wailed louder, confusion and awe lacing his voice. "The great, powerful, and wonderful Harry Potter treated Dobby like an equal and the great Harry Potter thinks he... he..." But Dobby could not finish because he broke out in great wrenching sobs again.

Harry did his best to comfort the little sprog because, honestly, the convulsions Dobby seemed to be causing himself looked extremely painful. "It's okay Dobby... Just settle down... Breath... That's it..." By now Dobby joined the Boy-Who-Lived on his makeshift pallet and finally started to calm down, taking in great heaping gasps of air as the shudders from his recent convulsions left him.

"So... I take it you don't know very many kind wizards?" Harry joked wryly, a small grin playing on his lips.

A distracted Dobby nodded his head, displaying a previously unseen level of sanity before the little house-elf realized what he admitted and jumped up suddenly, bashing headlong into the wall while screaming. "Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby! Dobby must be punished for his bad thoughts!"

Harry normally would have jumped up to prevent the little creature from doing such damage to himself, but found himself in a situation many pedestrians the world over have experienced. Just like when watching a car-wreck in abject shock and horror for these pedestrians, Harry could do little more than stare at the horrible scene playing out in front of him.

'House-Elves are just that Harry Potter.' Cloak's clearly amused voice echoed out from deep in his mind. 'They MUST obey the senior wizard while in their home. It is only polite.'

Deciding to figure out why he is now hearing his companions words in his head while awake at a later date, Harry jumped up and grabbed the little blighter before he could do more damage to himself. "Dobby STOP!" He commanded, and sure enough the little house-elf froze. Harry's thoughts threw out dozens of suggested commands for the little guy, but dismissed them immediately when Dobby started vibrating almost instantly. "No house-elves may punish themselves in my home without my direction or approval!" Harry stated succinctly, proud of himself for his quick thinking.

'What about AFTER he leaves, hmm?' Cloak posed, throwing Harry for another loop.

"Um... Right... And I will tell you if you earn any punishment while um... in my home..." Harry trailed off uncertainly.

Dobby just stared at him in complete awe, an expression of pure adoration and worship on his face that almost perfectly matched the one he saw in the... wherever his dream took place earlier.

'And what of the commands his Master has given him that extend beyond his home?' Cloak's amused and... curious voice echoed out.

Harry ran his hand through his hair in frustration while he tried to figure out how to address THAT statement. "Err... and consider any and all commands your Master has given you to be null and void while in my home... um... and your master doesn't exist while you are here and... um... as long as you don't try to hurt me." Harry tacked on that last line nervously when the image of a small insignificant pebble skipping across the water of the fountain flashed through his mind.

Dobby stood silent, just staring eerily with his far-too-big for his head eyeballs. The sanity he displayed only by accident earlier showed plain on his and the elf's eyes held a... calculating demeanor despite the still prevalent adoration.

After a good thirty seconds of nervous silence, Harry rolled his eyes before sticking out his hand for a shake. "Let's try this again. I am Harry Potter. Nice to meet you Dobby. How may I help you?"

"Dobby wants to be free..." The little elf said faintly before squeaking and covering his mouth with both hands. They slowly pulled away before Dobby gave Harry a focused, intent look. "Dobby has come to warn the great Harry Potter. Great evil stirring Harry Potter sir. Harry Potter should not be returning to Hogwarts this year."

Harry nearly growled at the thought, despite his newfound freedom there is no-way in the world Harry would give up Hogwarts. "I CAN'T Dobby. My friends are there!" Even as he said the words though, they rang a little hollow in his head. After just over six weeks with not even a phone call by any of his friends, the raven haired young began to wonder whether he really had friends at all.

Dobby looked positively feral for a moment before posing a seemingly innocent question. "Friends Harry Potter has?" the house-elf asked with a sly smile, "Friends who do not even write to the great Harry Potter."

Harry heaved a sigh and leaned back against the wall in frustration. "I... I don't know... They... Wait a minute. What do you MEAN friends that don't write?!" Harry asked dangerously, the Evans temper burning to the surface. "How would you know anything about that?"

Dobby looked slightly sheepish before pulling a large stack of envelopes from his pillowcase. Harry didn't hesitate to grab the pile, a bit roughly he would freely admit, but the crazy elf had been stealing his mail!

After the pitfalls, ups, and downs of the last few days, Harry had to force himself to visibly reign in his anger at the little imp before he caused Dobby to do something they would both regret. Cloak's story echoed fresh in his mind after all.

Finally after a nervous silence, Harry let out an exasperated sigh and just decided to ask point blank. "Dobby. WHY did you intercept my mail?" He asked quietly, only a little of his frustration bleeding into his calm words.

Dobby stared anxiously for a minute before ducking his head again in shame. "Dobby thought... Dobby thought the great Harry Potter sir would not want to return to Hoggywarts if he thought that... that he didn't have any friends."

Harry blinked.

"Um... Right... ... WHY did you not want me going back to Hogwarts?"

Dobby visibly flinched, murmuring silently to himself as he tried to work up the answer to Harry's question.

'When he imparts the tidings of ill will tell him you already know, and NEED Dobby to let the events play out. The great evil can only destroyed by an item already AT Hogwarts, so you are simply content to let it be delivered.'

Harry frowned at Cloak's voice in his head, giving Dobby the mistaken impression that his patience with the little house-elf wore thin. Cloak seemed to know exactly what Dobby wanted to warn him about, but didn't seem like he intended to expand on the matter in the slightest. 'What do you mean? Cloak? Hello?' He thought to himself, feeling more than slightly foolish.

"Dobby knows... Dobby knows of great danger that awaits Harry Potter should he return to Hogwarts... Dobby must protect the great Harry Potter sir.."

Harry sighed again. This whole situation seemed ideal to give him one giant headache. "Dobby." Harry called softly, waiting until the elf's eyes rose to meet his own. "I know exactly what will be sent to Hogwarts this year."

Dobby eyes widened comically. "Truly Harry Potter sir? The great Harry Potter already knows of the evil book?" The little elf asked intently, his eyes flickering back and forth between Harry own as he searched for deceit.

'Diary. Not book.'

Harry ran his hand through his hair nervously while trying to give the obviously friendly (though definitely deranged) elf a smile. "Yes. I know about the diary, and the only thingg that can destroy it is already at Hogwarts." Harry leaned forward with a conspiratorial look on his face. "That's why we're going to let it go to Hogwarts. It's practically being delivered for removal!" He whispered fiercely and earnestly, despite having NO idea what he was talking about.

Dobby eyes, if such a thing is possible without magic, widened even more. "The great Harry Potter sir is indeed a great and powerful wizard!"

Harry smiled indulgently for a moment in relief, but Dobby's next words forced the boy to sit up and take notice. "... But... Dobby thinks perhaps... Yes... Dobby should..."

When the elf favored the now worried Gryffindor with a triumphant smile, Harry's insides started churning in worry. "Dobby will make sure Harry Potter sir is away from Hoggywarts until Hoggywarts destroys the dark diary!"

Without another word, Dobby ran from the room on surprisingly swift feet with Harry hot on his heels. His wand clattered to the floor in the now empty room.

Harry only made it half a step into the now destroyed kitchen before Uncle Vernon's angry warbling bellow echoed through the entire house. "BOY!"

Bollocks.

- 2 - 2 - 2 -

What followed Dobby's flight into the Dursley home was a whirlwind that Harry just couldn't keep up with.

Before he even realized the severity of whatever it was Dobby did, an owl broke through the front window and basically attacked Uncle Vernon's business guests the Masons, propelling his Uncle into a rage the level of which Harry could honestly attest he had never seen the likes of before.

Then THE letter was found attached to the owl's leg.

THE letter from the thrice-bloody Ministry that cheerfully informed everyone in hearing distance, thankfully only the Dursley's as the Masons basically ran from the home while cursing the Dursley name, about the oh so wonderful Decree for the Reasonable Restriction for Underage Sorcery.

A numb Harry Potter didn't even think to protest when he was bodily dragged up the stairs and thrown headfirst into his own tiny closet, the door slamming closed behind him. When he came to his senses he tried the door, but Uncle Vernon apparently stacked his furniture against it. Hours were spent listening to Vernon hammering away, the old grating sounds emanating from Vernon's cheap electric drill, and cursing himself for dropping his wand in a desperate attempt to stop Dobby from... causing exactly what happened.

The door finally opened just before midnight, his Uncle's beady eyes staring down at him maliciously like a bug to be squashed.

"Can't do magic eh?" The enormous man asked with a gross leer mixed with a sneer worthy of the bat of the dungeons Severus Snape himself. "Forgot to TELL us that little fact, didn't ya BOY?"

Harry just stared at his Uncle silently.

After over a decade spent forced to live with the Dursleys, Harry only saw this expression of demented glee on his Uncle's face three times. The first time, at age four, Harry made the mistake of asking why he got so little food. This led almost immediately to the enormous mass of chores, repair jobs, and drudge work that defined his life until primary school finally began at age eight (not that they stopped afterwards, he just had school to keep him distracted). The second happened at age nine when Harry made the mistake of asking what his parents were like when they were alive. Vernon gleefully forced six bottles of cheap whiskey down his throat while detailing exactly what worthless, useless, layabout vagabonds his parents were; it took nearly three weeks to get over the stomach cramps and massive headache that ensued. The last instance happened only a year before, almost to date, when Vernon did everything in his power to ensure that Harry had no chance whatsoever to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

His Uncle's leer turned even more feral. "Nothing to say BOY?" He asked gleefully. "I didn't think so. You'll never see that school of yours again BOY! Enjoy your new life!"

With that final declaration, Vernon turned and lumbered out of the room followed shortly by the sound of roughly a dozens dead-bolts snapping into place.

After sitting for a full five minutes while trying to deny what his ears told him, Harry finally emerged from his closet to witness the newest 'decorations' now in his room. The sparse moonlight filtered between the gleaming steel bars covering the window and fell directly on the dozen keyholes up and down the length of the door. The new cat-flap at the bottom of the door just added insult to injury.

Harry felt a cold, wet sensation he couldn't remember happening outside of the fierce winds hitting his eyes since his sixth birthday. The abnormality continued unabated as he stared forlornly down at the innocuous looking tent a few yards down that could very well be on he far side of the planet for how easily he could reach it.

He stumbled over and collapsed on his bed, idly wiping the dampness from the back of his hair on the pillowcase as he fell into a fitful sleep.

Worst birthday ever.

- 2 - 2 - 2 -

Harry's sleep could be called sparing at best, miserable at worst.

Cloak's simultaneously reassuring and disturbing presence didn't intrude the slightest on his nightmares, leaving the poor boy fully exposed to the madness and demons that plagued his own traitorous subconscious. He dreamed of being in Quirell's place when the man's head burned to goo under his hands, desperation and pain echoing through his body as his brain started burning within his head. He dreamed of a woman screaming in defiance and a great flash of the darkest green accompanied by pain the likes of which he would subscribe the Crutacius Curse.

He woke with the dawn, a habit developed to avoid Aunt Petunia's searching and not very gentle prods with her broom years before, and could only stare dejectedly at the bars of his new cage. The idle thought passed his brain that perhaps this punishment is karma's way of punishing him for referring to his home as Durzkaban in his thoughts since hearing takes about the horrors of the wizarding prison Azkaban while at school.

'Remain calm and do not fear young Harry Potter. All will be well.' Cloak's reassuring voice echoed out from his thoughts a few minutes after Aunt Petunia pushed his meagre and threadbare brunch through the cat-flap, a half slice of toast and half a can of uncooked tomato soup.

"And how EXACTLY am I supposed to do that?" Harry asked the air sarcastically, ignoring his Aunt undignified squeak.

'By focusing your frustrations.' Cloak answered succinctly, a slightly smug undertone to his voice. 'Despite Dobby's intentional triggering of the warding for improper magic use, the Ministry cannot, in fact, sense wandless magic.'

Harry growled, his anger spiking spectacularly at Cloak's droll, condescending tone. "AND that helps me HOW?" He shouted, again ignoring the squeak of his Aunt from downstairs.

'Because YOU can DO wandless magic.' Cloak answered nonplussed.

"Oh SSSUUURREEE." Harry bit out sarcastically, no small amount of petulance in his tone, the Evans temper (though he did not know it as such) flaring impressively. "And I ASSUME all I have to do is wave my hand at the dresser and it will move?" He demanded, gesturing flippantly with his hand at the aforementioned dresser with his anger spiked to Evans levels.

With an audible screech, the dresser lurched half a foot across the room and slammed to a stop against the wall, accompanied by Harry getting slightly short of breath like he'd just ran the distance from the local grocery store non-stop.

With no small amount of trepidation, despite Cloak's previous assurances to the contrary, Harry waited for another warning notice about using underage magic to fly in on feathery wings for a full two hours before breathing a visible sigh of relief.

"Now how am I going to get out of here?" Harry pondered out loud. His spell repertoire isn't exactly the most stellar, having generally only studied on the first year spells taught during his first ten months at Hogwarts.

Turning a pin into a needle or a beetle into a button (the only two things he learned in Transfiguration) wouldn't exactly be of much use. Likewise he learned nothing of consequence in DADA under Quirellmort. Specifically, nothing. Harry realized with more than a bit of shock, ten months he spent and they never actually learned a single spell outside of Blue Bell Flames and the Stinging Hex (also useless in his current situation, no matter how satisfying it would be to nail Dudley with). In Charms they actually learned Wingardium Leviosa early on, a generic levitating spell, but spent the rest of the year doing nothing but Charms theory while Professor Flitwick tutored those in the class who had trouble casting the first year charm like Ron, Hannah Abbot (a rather quiet Hufflepuff), Seamus Finnegan (one of Harry's dorm-mates and an alright bloke), and Meg... Meg-something Jones (another Hufflepuff, one Harry can't even remember ever hearing words from though she did tend to look feverish anytime Harry saw her).

The less said about Astronomy or History of Magic the better. Harry, like all red-blooded males who have ever seen her, thought Professor Sinestra a very pleasant and attractive woman, but a midnight class staring through a relic of a telescope the average muggle wouldn't give their children as a gag would always be a downer to an early riser like Harry. Professor Binns... well... Harry learned that Wizards got into a lot of long-winded, exceedingly boring, and unending wars with the Goblin Nation over the years.

Oddly, despite being his most hated class ever, Harry DID manage to learn how to brew nearly a dozen different potions under the grueling and exacting tutelage of Professor Snape. That realization made Harry's stomach a little queasy. The subject of Snape reminded Harry of the Unlocking Charm Hermione used to visit the massive ten-foot tall Cerberus (named Fluffy) halfway through the hear, but Harry never even bothered learning the Second Year spell. Not that he could utilize any of his potions knowledge considering his Junior Potions Kit sat lucked up in his old bedroom, the cupboard under the stairs, alongside his beloved holly and Phoenix feather wand purchased at Ollivander's last year.

The R.I.P. wand being likewise unavailable as Harry knew it lay in the crumpled pile of Dudley's cast-offs he used as a bed last night. His mokeskin pouch, likewise, lay unavailable in the entryway living room where he dropped it after cooking himself a bowl of ramen for dinner the night before.

"ARRRGGGGHHHH!" Harry finally screamed out around three or four in the afternoon, getting no small feeling of satisfaction from the sound of a couple dishes shattering in the kitchen below from his exclamation. He had a sense he could very well blow the door right off its hinges, but then he would have to get past Dudley, his Aunt, and possibly half the neighborhood.

Not to mention there is no way Harry would give his gossiping, harping relatives more reasons to point out to all of their neighbors how 'disturbed and unstable' their nephew is. It's bad enough the entire city's population is convinced he attends St. Brutus Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. Literally the only resident of Little Whinging that does not, in fact, consider Harry to be a rather touched, unstable child is the actually touched and unstable neighborhood Old Cat Lady, Arabella Figg.

'Is there any difference between changing a toothpick to a needle or changing a needle to a toothpick?' Cloak asked randomly, upsetting Harry rather long-winded internal monologue.

Harry blinked. "I um... Guess not...?" He voiced aloud, curious where his... mentor might be going with this train of thought.

Cloak's amusement became readily apparent. 'Is there really any difference between the bar on the door's hinges and a needle?'

Harry blinked and just sort of sat there. No, there really isn't.

'Better practice.'

Harry nodded and peeled a splinter off the frame of his bed before focusing on the splinter. Ten minutes later he managed to turn the wood a dull grey. It however, stubbornly refused to turn to metal.

"This is going to take a while."

- 2 - 2 - 2 -


	3. Now you see me

Author's Notes:

Comments and reviews are of course always welcome. Just thought I'd throw that in there.

For those commenting... I need a name for an Augurey. Heh heh. Poor Harry...

- AN -

- Chapter 3 - Now you see me...

The shade looked around and felt itself sigh.

So much magic expended over the miles it did would always be tiring.

Such a frustrating and annoying child. Why does EVERY plan always go wrong when the name Potter is added to it?

- 3 - 3 - 3 -

By the time the Dursleys... (loudly, while emphasizing how good everything tasted) sat down to dinner two days later, Harry finally managed to consistently turn a couple of half-foot strips of wood (ripped from the framing around his hidden cubby which fortuitously held his father's invisibility cloak) into small steel rods and back again.

Being one of the only items in the world Harry had linking him to his deceased parents, his father in particular (who everyone commented he looked just, except having his mother's eyes), Harry actually rose home with the cloak safely ensconced in one of his pockets instead alongside the of alongside the picture album Hagrid out together of his parents that currently lay in his trunk locked under the stairs.

Despite feeling more than a little exhausted from his magical exertions, Harry felt ready to finally tackle the bolts holding the hinges together on the other side of the door. Harry's stomach warbled and moaned horribly from the lack of proper food to fuel his magic, despite devouring the fourth of an orange and the three crackers Aunt Petunia tossed on the floor through the cat-door a half-hour prior for dinner. Harry rather ignored it though, after this many years the young wizard is well accustomed to getting by on the bare minimum when it came to meals.

Using magic in any way, as Professor McGonagall reinforced to the class many times over the last year, requires great amounts of physical sustenance. This being one of the reasons that the House Tables in the Great Hall are usually filled to overflowing during each any every meal. Harry actually suspected his meager portions at the Dursleys through the years may have been their attempt to further curb his magic usage outside of the long-term punishments he always received for instances of his 'freakishness'. The worst punishment to date had Harry spend two full weeks in his cupboard with only a single slice of break and a teacup worth of water every third day. Compared to that punishment (back around his eighth birthday if he recalled correctly), his current prison practically rolled out the red carpet.

Collapsing backwards against the wall, Harry slowly nodded off as he waited for his RELATIVES to turn in for the night. His eyes slowly dropped closed while he heard Hedwig's soft coo from the edge of the window.

'Wake up young Harry Potter.'

The raven haired boy blinked a few times while rubbing his eyes, squinting at Dudley's cracked and half-busted watch in the darkness to figure out the time.

Midnight.

Perfect.

'Can I make a suggestion?'

'Shoot.' Harry thought back, not wanting to speak and potentially wake up his sleeping relatives.

'Instead of changing the bolts into wood, just make them much thinner so they fall right out. You can fix them afterwards and leave no-one the wiser how you escaped.'

Harry pondered on Cloak's words for a while before deciding them sounded like a really good idea.

Creeping over to the door, being careful to avoid the squeaky beam next to the closet, Harry focused hard on the hinges he installed for Uncle Vernon a few years before. Visualization and Intent. Cloak's advice came in very handy for this endeavor. The trick to Transfiguration of any kind remained purely in visualization and intent. Focus on the current state, then slowly step by step change the picture in your head while INTENDING for the change to happen on the object in question. It definitely helped Harry understand better Professor McGonagall's vague statements of 'focus on the change happening'.

He heard a dull 'thump' after a few seconds as the lower rod fell to the ground. He waited frozen for a few seconds, but Vernon's wood-grinder snores remained steady. Breathing a sigh of relief, he stood up straighter and focused on the rod in the center of the door, moaning silently to himself about Vernon's insistence that every door in HIS house would have THREE hinges instead of the standard two. It certainly had nothing to do with the overweight lumbering hulk of a man slamming in to the doors one too many times in a drunken haze and knocking said doors right off the weakened hinges.

Perish the thought.

A second thump and a second pause later left Harry standing up to his full (rather short) height and focusing on the final hinge. When it fell however, the bloody rod managed to bounce off of a lower hinge AND both of the two rods already sitting on the floor. To the nervous escapee the sounds felt like a full blown orchestra battering the cymbals, banging the drums, and playing straight down the xylophone.

After a full five minutes listening to Uncle Vernon's bellowing, house-shaking snores, Harry finally relaxed, carefully pushing at the edge of the door. The deadbolts posed a problem as the door only opened about six inches, but Harry managed to slide his way to freedom. He sacrificed one of his better cast-off shirts for the effort and earned a nasty gash across his stomach from the stupid middle hinge, but such losses are minimal in the face of his freedom.

It took another five minutes to fix the drops and push them back in place before heading towards the backdoor for his well earned freedom.

'The cupboard.'

Harry blinked, glancing at the pair of hinges holding the locked cupboard door in place before grinning happily. A solid, and tiring, fifteen minutes later the now completely exhausted boy heaved his trunk quietly into the kitchen.

A few spots danced in front of his eyes when he set the trunk down, but Harry remained determined to leave no evidence of his passage. Summoning up the last dredges of his strength, the slightly woozy Potter grabbed the two rods and quickly transfigured them back to the right size, not even caring that in his tired state they turned to wood instead of metal.

Within a few seconds of fixing the rods on the cupboard door, disaster struck in the form of the kitchen light flickering on.

Harry's night vision fled as spots danced in front of his eyes for a completely different reason. Precious seconds were wasted stumbling and grasping at his trunk while his eyes attempted to get used to the light.

"VERNON!" His Aunt's shrill voice echoed through the home, causing Harry to shrink back towards his trunk in horror. "VERNON!"

Harry didn't wait to find out what his Uncle would do if the walrus sized and always angry man managed to get ahold of him for a second time. Harry knew in his very bones that his strength was too exhausted to even put up a hint of resistance. Ignoring his Aunt's continued shrieks and the dull, heavy thuds coming down the stares, Harry threw the kitchen door open, grabbed his trunk, and bolted out the door and straight into his tent.

Knowing his relatives couldn't hope to catch him or find him now, Harry grabbed a couple of old chocolate frogs from his newer trunk and devoured them before collapsing into a deep dreamless sleep with exhaustion so extreme he wouldn't have woken for an earthquake.

A shame really, because he completely missed the soft glow emanating from the rune he accidentally activated a few days prior signaling the arrival of three unauthorized wizards around the tent a few hours later that, to them, seemed like the battered and ruined old tent was of no importance whatsoever.

Nor did Harry hear the loud crash from the bars over his windows being ripped out or the subsequent shouting match that ensued between the three boys before they finally left with determined looks on their faces.

"WHERE IS HARRY POTTER?!"

Harry bolted awake a day and a half later to a world filled with pain. His head felt like the Chudley Cannons used it for bludger practice for a week straight and his stomach felt emptier than at any time in living memory, passed the point of even groaning aloud in hunger.

His curiosity certainly peaked over whoever's scream jolted him awake, but he couldn't even move. He drifted back off to the sounds of screaming, completely oblivious to whatever might be happening in the world around him.

- 3 - 3 - 3 -

"Ugh! Fine! I'll go MYSELF!" The impassioned, frustrated, and indignant young girl screamed at her mother before stomping off to her room in a snit, slamming the door behind her.

"That's nice dear." Her mother murmured in a conciliatory and condescending fashion as she flipped to the next page of her latest news-brief, having mostly ignored whatever diatribe or tangent her daughter went off on this time.

Now, a casual observer would probably scowl or frown at the apparent disinterest the woman displayed just now at her daughter's impassioned speech. What the casual observer would not know is that this particular scene had been played out at least three or four dozen times over the years.

If not more.

Emma Granger loved her daughters as only a true parent could ever hope to. Her oldest daughter was her pride, joy, and miracle. Hermione Jean Granger arrived just over ten months after her father died at the hand of a mugger on Christmas Day, a final present from one of the men Emma ever loved. Her current husband Dan had been best friends with Emma's first husband and provided Hermione the father Emma thought she would never have. After only three years Dan proposed and happily signed the adoption papers before Hermione's fourth birthday.

Another slam from upstairs caused Emma to smirk in a manner Harry would instantly recognized, having seen the same look on her daughter's face many times before. As much as Emma loved her nearly thirteen year old daughter, and as proud as she ever could be of Hermione's strong drive to excel and change the world, the woman couldn't maintain her sanity if she jumped to task every time her highly opinionated daughter decided to embark on another quest to better mankind or books. (Usually books.)

Finding out Hermione was a witch on her eleventh birthday nearly two years prior was actually a relief. Not because of the strange abilities Hermione displayed over the years, but because the determined young woman rarely gave her parents a moments peace at times. Before the letter, and subsequent visit by the stern looking Scottish woman Ms. McGonnagall, Hermione already skipped two grades and had plans to pass her primaries and enter a University by the age of sixteen. Hogwarts might be rather expensive compared to the low-level Ivy League School Hermione attended beforehand, but the school gave her parents an extra five years to come up with the money for Hermione's college.

Provided their bibliophile daughter didn't manage to spend it all on the spell-books she collected like boys collected their baseball cards.

"MUM! WHERE'S MY WAND?!" Hermione's voice bellowed from the general area of her room in the attic. She moved up there and took over the entire attic just after her eleventh birthday when her library became too large for the twelve by fourteen bedroom she shared with her sister.

Emma heard their youngest daughter, the six year old Miranda, giggle faintly from the nearby living room, but refrained from commenting on it. Poised, prepared, and organized better than most interred O.C.D. patients at any time, her daughter had been utterly flustered and distracted since returning home from school nearly a month prior.

Even the sites of Paris, where they went on a two week vacation couldn't really catch Hermione's attention excepting, of course, when they visited a library or famous historical monument.

"Check your dresser dear." Emma said out side, not bothering to look up from her news-brief. Emma suspected her distraction had something to with one or both of the two boys her daughter made friends with at her magic school over the past year. Emma and Dan both had been over the hill in happiness when Hermione's formerly morose and almost bleak letters early on changed their tune after the two boys "practically saved her from a troll" on Halloween. Emma still laughed over that first excited and joy filled letter. With as eloquent and well-spoken as Hermione generally tended to be, the bully the two boys stood must have been something for her daughter to actually call the person a 'troll'.

If only she knew.

Hermione's mind, besides the other fifteen trains of thought, focused on the troll incident at that very moment. Unlike what her parents might have thought, due in no small part to Hermione's own downplaying of the event, her best friends Harry Potter and Ron Weasley DID in fact face down a real, living, stinky, huge, twelve foot tall troll covered in rippling muscle and refuse on Halloween last year. Seeing the quiet and introverted eleven year old Harry Potter leap on to the back of a troll four (or eight) times his size was awe inspiring for the friendless little that just made the official decision to leave the school altogether in shame and the pain of a loneliness existence.

Harry, who, despite trying to hide the fact, only returned to his relative's house with no small amount of trepidation. Harry, who faced down Snape, Quirellmort, and the troll without a lick of fear or hesitation yet had damp eyes and slight shakes at the very thought of returning to his relatives house.

Harry, who promised to write as often as he could be had not responded to a single letter.

At first, Hermione had been devastated that the first friend she ever made in her life would abandon her like he did. Until Ron's letter arrived with only three or four lines in his horribly untidy scrawl. 'Have you heard from Harry?'

After that letter, Hermione locked herself in her room for the day and felt inconsolable. She had been wallowing in self pity for nearly a month over Harry's seeming abandonment over her without even pausing to consider the last thing her raven haired classmate said to her as he stoically walked through the passageway at King's Cross like he faced the very gallows themselves.

"I hope I see you again this Fall."

He said it with a smile, A SMILE, and Hermione, having grown up in a loving happy family never even paused to give Harry's words a moment's thought. So wrapped up in the happiness of seeing her parents and sister again after ten long months, not to mention a fervent desire to put the horrors of the third floor corridor behind her, Hermione never gave Harry's living situation a second thought until the end of their two week jaunt in Paris when she received Ron's missive.

The one she held in her hand though frightened her to the very core in worry for one of her only two friends, and the better of the two if she would be honest with herself.

Ron, and his twin brothers Fred and George, took an early morning trip to Harry's house after stealing his Dad's flying car. (Hermione ranted for an hour at Ron's letter about the various laws she KNEW they broke doing that.) The only they found in Harry's bedroom was a pile of feces in couple of soup cans in the corner, a bloody sheet on Harry's bed, and no sign of Harry. Then the letter got even worse. It took a full day for Ron and the twins to convince their parents about the seriousness of Harry's situation before they could be convinced to go see about Harry's welfare. The 'horrid Muggles that make Snape seem nice' (Ron's words) didn't care and claimed Harry was away at a friend's house, refusing to even let Ron's parents upstairs to at least check.

Ron, a Pureblood wizard who knew almost nothing about the muggle world (being born and raised in the Wizarding World), took his father's words that twelve locks on a bedroom door is normal as gospel. Ron even described, condescendingly, in his letter how surprised he was that Muggles were so afraid in their own houses that they would do such a thing. She couldn't blame her other best friend exactly. His Dad, apparently, is the foremost expert on the muggle world working at the Ministry for Magic. Which actually said all that needs to be said on what the Wizarding World thinks of Muggles when considering the first thing he asked her when they met at the train-station was if she knew the use of the rubber ducky.

That was yesterday.

"Finally!" She screamed out when she found her wand underneath her newest Potions book. There is no way on Earth Hermione would be facing the people Harry only ONCE described without her wand at the ready.

With the same determination she held when she told the Sorting Hat that under no circumstances would she take any House but Gryffindor, the young brunette huffed and stalked down the stairs. The trip from London to Little Whinging by bus would be a solid four hours and by Merlin's name she intended to be there by two o'clock.

- 3 - 3 - 3 -

For the second time in as many days Harry woke to the sounds of shouting, only THIS voice he easily recognized.

"Hermione!" He croaked happily, only noticing a few moments later that the headache from the previous day appeared non-existent. He worried for a moment about the lack of hunger, but hearing Hermione's voice (even at the shrieking level she currently held) gave him a new lease on life.

With an excited smile on his face he stumbled out of the tent towards her voice, shaking his head and blinking to get the sunspots out of his eyes.

"BOY!" His Uncle's enraged voice bellowed angrily as he burst into the kitchen. "TELL YOUR FREAKISH FRIEND TO GO AWAY!"

Harry saw Hermione's eyes widen in shock when she took in the sight of him. He wasn't really surprised. After going nearly three days without bathing or changing his clothes while locked in his room, he was probably a horrible sight.

What Harry didn't know of was the dried blood soaked four days ago into the neck of his shirt, his hair, and even his face from being thrown headfirst into sharp edge of his closet. The shredded shirt and the bruised gash down his middle painted a bleaker picture. Especially since all present could see each and every one of his ribs clearly through the massive tear in his shirt.

Hermione gasped and covered her mouth with her hand, tears gathering in her eyes. "Oh Harry..."

"I'LL SEE YOU JAILED FOR THIS DURSLEY!" an enraged masculine voice Harry didn't recognize bellowed from the entryway to the kitchen causing him to flinch and back into the door. Harry's eyes alighted on a tall man with a strong jaw and soft brown eyes that Harry knew must be Hermione's father. His dark blue collared shirt and complimenting pleated pants screamed 'class' in a manner that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia could never manage for all their bluster. "EMMA! CALL THE POLICE!"

"Hello? Hello? I need police and an ambulance at..." another new voice stuttered out from living room.

"HOW DARE YOU TOUCH MY PROPERTY YOU... YOU... VAGABONDS!" Uncle Vernon screamed, raising his arm threateningly as he tried to pass by the wall represented the man Harry assumed to be Mr. Granger.

"I would lower your arm..." The man hissed threateningly, his brown eyes flashing dangerously and he crossed his own arms around and refusing to budge.

Aunt Petunia, who Harry finally noticed as actually being in the kitchen with all the ruckus, just seemed lost in her own worst as she stared at Harry with slightly watery eyes. Her normally flaccid skin held a much starker, pale tone and her eyes seemed completely unfocused.

"Listen here you!" Uncle Vernon blustered, poking Mr. Granger in the chest. "You freaks can't just waltz into the homes of honest respectable people! Get out! We don't care for your kind here!"

"And WHAT kind would THAT be Mr. Dursley?" The man asked, not backing down from his Uncle in the slightest and refusing to budge. The woman in the living room, Hermione's mother if Harry guessed, traded words with someone in harsh whispers that Harry couldn't hear.

A sniffle drew Harry's notice moments before a bushy-haired ball slammed into him with a hug, taking him right off his feet and on to the floor. "Oh Harry I'm so sorry... I didn't know... I swear I came as soon as I heard... Please believe me..." His best friend choked out between her sobs.

"Um... It's okay Hermione. I'm fine. Really." Harry tried to reassure her, awkwardly trying to figure out what to do about witch wrapped around his body like a vice, seemingly afraid to let him go.

She glared at him through her tears. "Harry James Potter! You are certainly NOT fine!" She practically shouted in his face, causing him to flinch involuntarily which in turn caused her to break out in sobs again. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry... Oh Harry you..."

"I am a DENTIST YOU BLOODY BIGOT!" The man screamed, drawing Harry's attention as the man who accompanied Hermione leaned in and poked Vernon repeatedly in the chest to emphasize his point. "And RESPECTABLE?" The man demanded pointedly. "Is THAT respectable?" He pointed at Harry for emphasis causing the introverted boy to duck his head behind Hermione and blush in embarrassment.

The Bobbies finally showed up ten minutes later and Vernon ended up handcuffed to the table after trying to physically shove the officer back out the door while screaming as he is won't to do.

"Mr. Potter?" A friendly looking older woman with friendly blue eyes and smooth hair called quietly, "My name is Teresa. Do you mind answering a few questions?"

Harry blushed, especially since Hermione still sat unmoving in his lap, but shook his head. The questions seemed go fine for a few minutes until she asked about his room.

"It's not my room. It's Dudley's second bedroom." He mumbled, causing the unmoving Aunt Petunia to gasp.

She smiled gently at Harry and squeezed his hand gently. "And where is your room Mr. Potter?" She asked with a welcoming smile. Harry felt too embarrassed to answer, but his eyes betrayed him when he unconsciously glanced at the cupboard under the stairs.

Her face darkened immediately, making Harry flinch at the angry look in her eyes. "Johnson! Get that cupboard open!" She snapped.

Aunt Petunia jumped out her seat and stood with arms spread in front of the doorway. "Now now!" She said quickly with a hint of desperation. "There's no need to listen to such fanciful tales from my disturbed nephew. He's touched you see..."

The officer just ignored her and snapped the deadbolt holding the cupboard closed after stepping behind her.

Harry tried to bolt, but Hermione refused to be dislodged. "Let me go!" He bellowed at her, not even knowing why he felt so angry but needing to get away. He couldn't bear his best friend to see what kind of a freak he is. Her arms loosened from her surprise and managed to wriggle out and bolt for the open door and the safety of his tent.

A strong pair of arms wrapped around him suddenly and held him in place. "Easy there lad." The man, Hermione's dad, said gently. Harry continued to struggle, tripling his effort when the officer emerged with a heavily stained and threadbare blanket and the scribbled piece of old parchment with his handwriting scribbled on it that said simply 'Harry's Room' in white-gloved hands. "Relax son. It's going to be okay. Just relax. It's okay."

After re-reading his childish scrawl, Harry broke down in sobs for the first time since age six and he didn't even know why. The man wrapped him in a gentle hug on the kitchen floor, the third in his life that he could remember, and he sobbed even harder.

- 3 - 3 - 3 -

"Mr. Granger? My name is Teresa Erstwhile. I work for Her Majesty's Social Services Department."

Hermione glanced at the woman approaching her dad in a whispered voice for a second, but her eyes quickly turned back to Harry sleeping fitfully in her dad's arms. The E.M.T. already cleaned his head and applied dressings to the gash on his stomach, holding off taking Harry to the Hospital until the police finished their investigation. The fierce glare Dan Granger gave the woman when she suggested he lay Harry down had nothing to do with it.

She suspected things weren't very good in Harry's home life over the last year, but nothing could have prepared her for this.

"First I want to thank you for calling us and I assure there will be no charges filed against you for the supposed assault Mr. Dursley claims to have happened. We will have a few more questions for Harry when..." Here her eyes glassed over slightly with unshed tears as she choked slightly while trying to maintain her professionalism. "Yes. Well. Would you be willing to stay with young Harry at the Hospital? I have seen a few cases such as Harry's over the years, though nothing this... this... abominable and a friendly face of someone they know nearby is generally beneficial." Hermione noticed that her dad didn't correct the woman on her assumption that the boy currently sleeping while still clutching his shirt like a life-raft was in any way familiar with him. He just nodded and quietly offered to ride in the Ambulance with Harry.

Her eyes flickered over his... cousin in the corner, disgusted as the piggish boy continued to regale the officer making copious notes on her pad of all the times his father rewarded him with presents and ice cream for 'beating the freak' out of Harry. Hermione had a lonely, bookish, and friendless childhood to be sure, but... but she always had her parents, and later her sister, proving their love and support.

"How could they Dad?" Hermione asked as they walked towards the ambulance, fresh tears gathering in her eyes. "How could anyone DO this?"

"I don't know Pumpkin. I don't know." For the first time in her life, the man she considered a rock, a giant, possibly a saint, her father held no answers. He just hugged her to him with his free arm.

The ride to the Hospital proved to be difficult at best. Even in his sleep Harry struggled and fought against the restraints holding him down, moaning pitifully until Hermione started running her fingers through his hair and whispering reassurances in his ear.

The doctors hooked him up to half a dozen wires when they arrived, informing the Grangers that they would be keeping him sedated until they could get him X-Rayed to ensure he had no cranial swelling from hitting his head when his Uncle threw him in the closet.

After a few whispered words between her parents, her mum and sister departed for home, leaving her and her dad to keep vigil over Harry's bed.

"He's going to need your support." Her dad spoke into the silence, a mournful wistful tone in his voice as he kept his eyes focused on the sleeping Harry. Hermione looked up, but her dad kept talking before she could question him further. "When... When I... You have to understand pumpkin... My... My childhood was not pleasant."

Hermione looked at her dad questioningly, never hearing anything about this before, yet his eyes remained entirely focused on the unconscious boy sleeping in the hospital bed between them. "Your... Father. Your REAL Father." Hermione wanted to interrupt, but felt like her Dad needed to say this. "He... He found out about it when we were about ten. I was more embarrassed then ever in my life. I was SO angry at him. So hurt. He... exposed me. He knew about my life when no one else before ever did. It... I'm ashamed to say I partially even blamed him for it I guess... What... What I mean to say is... From what you've told me Harry is a strong, independent lad. Not unlike my own childhood I guess, he learned to rely on himself early on." Her dad finally looked up, fixing her with a serious look. "He's going to be angry with you. He's going to feel hurt. Betrayed. He's going to do everything he can to chase you away because he won't know how... how... how to face you when you know about his greatest failing. His weakness."

"But its not his fault!" She cried, fresh tears gathering in her eyes. "He should KNOW that!"

"Does he? Can he?"

Hermione just opened her mouth and closed it a few times. She didn't have an answer for that. "Just be his friend. Don't try to treat him differently. Don't act any different with him. He'll talk when he's ready. Not before."

"I couldn't have said it better myself Mr. Granger." A voice said from the doorway, revealing a tired looking Ms. Erstwhile standing with a clipboard and leaning against the doorframe.

"Have you finished your investigation?" Hermione asked, getting a visible grimace from the woman.

"Quite." She said with distain, pausing to try and choose her words before sitting in the chair Hermione's mother exited hours before and rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Th... Ugh... Harry's... situation is one I have never encounter before."

"Go on." Dan growled a little forcefully.

"I..." She frowned, obviously wanting to say more, but finding it difficult. "Mr. Granger, before I say more, would you consent to temporary guardianship of Mr. Potter?"

"Of course." Hermione beamed. Her dad didn't miss a beat or even pause to think about the woman's question.

"Then please sign here and I can tell you more." Hermione's eyes widened when the paper flashed golden for a second after he signed, obviously unnoticed by her father, though Hermione caught the faint widening of Ms. Erstwhile's eyes. "Good. I know this isn't... the standard protocol, but literally all of the other parties that might have been able to take the young Mr. Potter are... unavailable."

Dan frowned openly and raised an eyebrow. Something was off with that statement.

Ms. Erstwhile gave a slightly sardonic grin, as if she just finished eating something rather unpleasant. "To help Harry, as it seems that you wish to do, this information is necessary, but I ask that perhaps we step into the corridor."

Hermione didn't miss the significant glance the woman sent her way. "Oh hell no!" She spat out. Her school-mates would have been frozen solid to hear such language coming from the mouth of THE Hermione Jane Granger. "I need to know too! Harry's my BEST friend!"

The woman looked between the two in silence for a second, obviously noticing that no disagreement, support, or complaint would be forthcoming from Dan Granger on the issue. She finally nodded. "With your permission?" She asked Dan, legally Harry's guardian based on the papers they just signed. He nodded succinctly.

"Very well. I know what school your daughter and Mr. Potter attend." Father and daughter blinked in sync at that announcement. "Mr. Potter's neighbors however WERE of the opinion that he attends a school for criminally insane children that closed in the fall of 1977." Ms. Erstwhile gave a particularly feral grin. "Well, they WERE. The Headmistress and Nurse of Harry's Primary School both admitted in questioning that they called Social Services at least five times each concerning Mr. Potter's living conditions. The only reason I was called yesterday afternoon is because the local worker happened to be on vacation with Mr. Dursley's rather... horrid sister. One paid for by Mr. Dursley himself. Legally both Dudley and Harry should have gone to the woman, Marge, except for the scars along Harry's legs actually came from a rather feral and nearly rapid dog owned by Ms. Dursley, something we know only because of how willing Harry's cousin has been to describe the... events of young Mr. Potters life."

Hermione gasped. "Oh Harry."

"His current Headmaster immediately applied for guardianship late this afternoon." She turned to Hermione. "I believe you know Mr. Dumbledore?" She asked, getting a nod. "Well unfortunately, the Dursleys stated on Court Record that Mr. Dumbledore left young Harry on their doorstep in the middle of the night in early November in 1981. Furthermore, we have Harry's own statements that Mr. Dumbledore, the previously registered guardian of Mr. Potter, actually refused Harry's request to not go back." Hermione gasped again. How could he? "Indeed. Our world is not as unaware as you might think of what happens in the Wizarding World. Which is why I know Harry's original assigned guardian, one Siruis Black, also cannot take custody of Mr. Potter because he ended up jailed in Azkaban as a Death Eater."

"Death Eater?" Hermione questioned, being unfamiliar with the term.

"The Dark Wizard Voldemort's terrorist group."

"Oh."

"Indeed." The tired woman muttered, her mask of professionalism slowly breaking down. "Worse still..." She whispered, horror being reflected in her eyes. "Can you imagine the fall-out if your world found out their Golden Boy had been systematically abused by an ENTIRE small city of non-Magicals?"

Hermione's mature, and rather creative, brain painted a picture very quickly and she gagged in horror, only barely making to the wastebin before loosing her dinner.

"Are you sure you wish to stay Ms. Granger?" The woman asked gently.

Hermione wiped her mouth and stood with her back straight.

"I need to know."

- 3 - 3 - 3 -

Hermione managed not to wretch again after hearing the details of Harry's life, mostly gathered by a bragging Dudley Dursley and further confirmed by a few discreet interviews.

Her best friend, one of the most selfless, kind, and noble people she ever had the fortune to meet had been systematically abused physically, mentally, and emotionally his entire life by every single 'adult' around him.

His Aunt and Uncle routinely smacked him around with any number of inappropriate objects, including but not limited to his Aunt's four pound cast iron frying pan, his Uncle's golf clubs, the DAILY newspaper, and more. That didn't even include the Harry Hunting games Dudley got paid by his disgusting beast of a father to play. Hermione even remembered Harry making a joke once about his Quidditch skills being, in his words, 'hard earned' his entire life.

Most of his teachers thought him a troublemaking idiot thanks to the efforts of Dudley and his parents. If any trouble came from the school, the ENTIRE class blamed it on Harry, he wasn't allowed to score higher than Dudley in any class without punishment, and the two people who 'tried' to help him by calling a social worker just got him punished more.

No wonder he always held such defiance against Professor Snape, Malfoy, or the other bullies. Harry couldn't let himself break.

Correction. Harry couldn't catch a break.

Hermione's musings cut short when Ms. Erstwhile cleared her throat nervously, breaking the comfortable silence that settled between the trio after she finished recounted what she discovered nearly twenty minutes prior.

"Now... I think we should discuss one of the reasons I felt quite adamant on your family for Harry's guardianship Mr. Granger."

"Dan, please."

The friendly woman gave a wan smile. "Dan then. As you are aware Harry's... injuries could have him in the Hospital for upwards of two to three months for recovery."

Dan nodded.

"Whereas, should a qualified Mediwitch see to him and assign an appropriate potions regiment, Harry should be up and recovering within the week. If memory serves the nutrient potions he'll need with probably last thru the end of summer." She paused, taking a deep breath. "I believe it would be... beneficial for Harry to be back to his normal self before the new school year starts at Hogwarts. No only for his magic, but... for his... state of mind."

Dan and Hermione nodded, understanding the situation clearly. What, for the muggle world, takes considerable medicine, surgery, and extensive rehabilitation can usually be resolved within a few days or weeks with the magic of modern... magical science.

"I have already cleared most of the paperwork to have Harry discharged into your care, with the guardianship papers finalized it should only be another hour or so to have him released. I suggest you seek a credible Healer quickly."

Hermione blinked.

That was fast.

- 3 - 3 - 3 -


	4. See Me Feel Me

Author's Note:

I have a review. Cool beans. On the other side of the equation, I'm still trying to figure out how I want to rewrite my Summary, but you'll find out a LOT of hints in part of this chapter.

Twenty cookies if ANYONE can figure out who the first enemy is.

- AN -

- Chapter 4 – See Me... Feel Me...

Life at the Granger Home was a breath of fresh air for young Harry. It started off a little... difficult, especially after he blew up at Hermione for reasons he really couldn't state at the time. A long conversation with the strong and poised Mr. Granger... err... DAN... Set helped set Harry straight on exactly where his feelings were coming from.

He apologized quietly to Hermione and only received a half-hearted threat to never do it again. He also apologized to Hermione's sister for upsetting her 'Sissy'.

The difference between the Grangers and the Dursleys left Harry at a loss on how to proceed. Whereas all the 'family' interactions he ever watched in his old home had a... ... forced?... quality to them, the Grangers love for each other remained on display for all to see. The family, which now somehow included Harry somewhere, always sat down for dinner each evening and traded happy stories each day in polite conversation unlike anything Harry ever experienced before. Even Hedwig, who arrived alongside Harry, was quickly accepted as part of the family and became a centerpiece of conversations at dinner because of her great intelligence and mothering of Harry, a fact that satisfied his vain little owl completely.

It wasn't until his fourth day with the Grangers that Hermione asked where his schoolbooks were. Harry felt oddly... hesitant about revealing his... Sanctuary. In the end after some not-so-polite prodding by Hermione, he finally told her about his trips to Diagon Alley on his birthday and discovering only just before his... incarceration how Dobby screened his mail over the last few weeks. He didn't even get a chance to read the letters!

He did however keep quiet about his dreams with Cloak and hearing the man's voice in his head. Regardless of the constant assurances that yes, he was a perfectly normal and wonderfully polite young man, and no, he was not a freak or anything similar, Harry knew only wack-jobs admitted to hearing voices in their head.

Hermione and Harry jumped the fence under his Invisibility Cloak while Dan stayed in the car. It was... surreal to know that the elder Dursleys were both in jail for child abuse. Harry nearly threw up when the realization hit him when the tent was halfway down.

He never considered himself abused. He wasn't... or at least... he never thought he was. Dan disagreed. The man's quiet confidence forced Harry into breaking down a third time when the man quietly told him that if he really wanted to heal and be a true friend, a true person, and a real father for his future children that Harry NEEDED to admit, if only to himself, that he was in fact abused. Harry TRIED to deny Dan's words until the stern-faced man asked him in a determined voice if he would ever willingly put his children through what he suffered. That was about the time Harry broke down.

The first week passed in a wonderfully brilliant haze for Harry, who couldn't help but wait for the other shoe to drop. After the initial... disagreement with Hermione, Harry quickly forced himself to adapt and became an accepted and welcome addition to the Granger family. Harry had at least a half dozen quiet conversations with Dan, a man who TRULY understood Harry in a way no-one he ever met to date could. Hermione's little sister Miranda had Harry wrapped around her little finger thoroughly and Harry cherished every minute of it. The bubbly, chattering little flower didn't so much break through Harry's carefully constructed defenses as much, the opinionated (and fascinated) little girl just ignored them completely.

Harry couldn't help but wonder how a single child could be such a... tornado at times. Her bedroom went from being cleaned and organized each night under either Dan or Emma's stern gaze to a disaster area in need of quarantine by noon each morning. Toys, books, clothes, and more were strewn across her room by the easily distracted girl as she practically leapt from playing dolls to dress up, make-up to ponies, and back again in a non-stop display of energy that made Harry tired just WATCHING her.

Hermione's mother, who looked (and sometimes acted) frighteningly like an older blue-eyed Hermione, appeared on the surface to be everything Harry ever imagined his own mother might be. She held herself with a quiet, pleasant dignity that Harry instantly respected and held no small amount of esteem for. She openly displayed her pride in both of her girls and didn't hesitate in the slightest to compliment Harry with that same warm, proud smile as often as she did her own children.

However, like all good things in Harry's life, the other shoe did in fact drop, after he went to sleep on his seventh day after a completely brilliant and utterly mortifying trip to the family's favorite clothes shop for a complete wardrobe. There are many, many things that Harry would not hesitate to share or participate with his best FEMALE friend, but discussing his choice in undergarments would never be one of them. That didn't even include his complete lack of knowledge on the available options since he refused point blank from a young age to wear Dudley's brown-striped and hole-ridden hand me downs of the delicate nature. His mortified blush would never have vanished if Hermione managed to piece together the fact that Harry had gone commando since age seven.

The unconditional support and love Harry received over the last week left him reacting in a completely new manner than ever before to the impending threat against the family that welcomed him with open arms.

Harry was pissed.

- 4 - 4 - 4 -

"Have you ever tried your hand at weaving young Harry Potter?"

Harry blinked, thinking (wrongly) that he had long since become accustomed to the... man's non-sequiturs. "I... um... Can't say that I have." Harry said after a moment, looking around the dilapidated building. Despite the greyish stage of his dream, the walls of the building looked somehow a much... worse and ugly shade of grey. The panelling looked to have been routinely cracked and re-plastered by a subpar, but well-meaning mechanic. The pastel layered paint hung loosely from the walls in strips. Harry knew some areas of the United Kingdom that the humidity and constant rain tended to be complete enough to leave buildings in such a state without a near constant level of attention, but he never personally witnessed any such building until now.

Cloak nodded silently and started walking slowly down the hall towards a set of doors at the other end. After looking a little closer around him, Harry started to catch a number of details that escaped him only moments before. Yes, the building is undoubtedly run-down, but the walls, floors, and ceiling appeared to be at least well cleaned and semi-maintained. Dozens of pictures were lovingly hung up and down the wall in a rather inspired collage that made Harry think of a smile. Each picture showed the same tired yet happy elderly woman with thick glasses and sensible wool robes that reminded Harry a little of Professor McGonagall. Alongside the unknown woman in various poses, whether affectionate hugs, macho stretches, or dainty curtsies. As each picture on the entire wall was taken using a magical camera, Harry couldn't help but notice the fond, proud smile the woman graced each of the children with when their attention diverted from her.

Perhaps the owner just does not have the income for a proper repairman? What is this place?

"When weaving a tapestry a failing many weavers get in to is to focus on a single set of threads to create the perfect design. This can sometimes lead to bad pieces of thread, tears, or even holes and missing chunks of tapestry. Do you understand?"

Harry thought about what he might be implying and he had to admit he could sort of see where Cloak might be coming from. It sort of referenced what his primary school teacher once said about seeing the forest from the trees in a painting. When someone gets so entirely focused on painting the 'perfect' tree, they sometimes focus on painting that one tree to the exclusion of everything else.

It made sense, but Harry had no clue what Cloak meant by such a statement.

"I... am not a God... or anything similar Harry." Cloak started slightly in a halting fashion, a sense of uncertainty and trepidation rolling off of him companion's form.

Harry nodded agreeably, still semi-certain that he was going insane, so the thought that Cloak isn't a God didn't really disturb him much.

Cloak chuckled slightly, a huge sense of amusement roiling off his form almost in excess beyond the waves of greyish, blackish mist that sometimes seem to compose his companion's very being in everything except the small burning balls of yellowed flames that made up his eyes. "No. You are not going insane young Harry Potter. As I once said to you before. I am merely a friend. We can actually meet in person upon your return to Hogwarts."

"Really?"

"Yes. Unfortunately, after a rather... debilitating accident I can no longer actually leave the school."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Thank you, but I believe our conversation has gotten off track. We were talking threads if memory serves."

Harry nodded.

"I am not, despite how brilliant it would be, omniscient either." Cloak paused, his amusement being replaced again by a distinct sense of uncertainty. "The... the reason I have been absent the past week is I noticed a thread that I've never actually seen before and... it... worries me... ... I... have... been trying to... determine... hmm... not really where the thread came from so much as where the thread WENT I guess."

Harry cocked his head at an angle. He... didn't like the sound of that.

Unfortunately, true to form, Cloak can't seem to just say things how that are and be upfront. "Divination Harry is, as you once were told, a very wooly subject."

"Annnnddd?" Harry asked with a slight amount of impatience, annoyed by Cloak's habit to dither and the fact that despite walking during the entire conversation the duo seemed no closer to the doors than they were a few minutes ago.

"And nothing. Maybe. That's the point. I don't know. What I DO know is the fact that in a few week's time you were to accompany Hermione and her family to Diagon Alley to purchase your school supplies where Hermione makes a handful of comments on how she enjoys being an only child." Cloak stated in his usual monotone, irritation and annoyance rolling off his form.

Harry flinched visibly.

Cloak stopped and his eyes turned to evaluate Harry in silence for a minute before one of his burnt skeletal arms lifted Harry's chin. Glowing emerald met burning orange in silence for a few moments before a veritable flood of emotions rolled off of Cloak like a tsunami, making Harry both nauseous and more than a little dizzy.

Cloak dropped his hand and muttered to himself in... Latin?... for a full minute. Harry just leaned against the wall in order to regain his bearings. Up seemed like a very attractive down at that moment and left certainly had the right of it.

Cloak's skeletal hand made a odd motion that Harry would call the equivalent of pinching the bridge of his nose if in fact there is a nose hiding under that cowl. "You should read the section in your grandmother's book about Empaths young Harry Potter."

Never having heard the word before, Harry just nodded. The young Gryffindor regretted that action when his stomach informed him he is an idiot.

"I suggest as well you stay on your toes and watch the young Miranda closely. I will tell you more in a few days if I can find anything out."

Harry growled. "What's that supposed to mean?!" He demanded angrily, ready to wash his hands of Cloak completely if the... man didn't start making sense.

Cloak sighed. "I don't know. And that makes me uncomfortable. I never thought you would end up at the Grangers young Harry Potter. I had other plans for your summer than you pretending to be a normal child."

Harry became incensed. "YOU had plans? We're you going to tell me those plans? Or just lead me around by the nose like a dog? What if I WANT to be normal for once?"

"Stop being a petulant child!"

That did it. "Get out! Get out of my dreams, get out of my head, get whatever 'plans' you have and LEAVE!"

Cloak's essence ripped away through the grey expanse in hundreds of tiny black shreds of mist, vanishing from Harry's dream, thoughts, and mind.

- 4 - 4 - 4 -

Hermione obviously caught on to his bad mood almost soon as he served breakfast the next morning, but dropped it when he frowned and mumbled "Nightmare."

He still can't decide whether he is happy or not that Hermione, and in fact her whole family, actually has an idea how life for him at Privet Prison was for most of his life.

On one hand, the past few days passed in a near-haze of absolute mortification. Regardless of the state the Grangers actually found him in when he awoke after his escape, life in his relatives home was only very rarely that bad. No more than four or five times a year did he end up in such a state, and the damage generally was inflicted by Dudley, not his guardians. Instead of knowing he had a... hate-hate relationship with his relatives, Hermione seemed to think he was abused. Harry had been shown pictures and stories of abused children by his Aunt many times in his life, he knew he wasn't abused. Unloved? Definitely. But abuse...? No.

On the other hand, he felt a sense of... relief...?... that someone knew and disapproved of the the life forced on him over a decade ago. Dan definitely became Harry's absolute, no-question role model when the quiet, strong man proved that it IS possible to live a life the two of them did and still have a future.

A Future. Such a word had always been an interesting catch twenty-two for Harry. His entire future plans always involved escaping his relatives, yet if found himself planning or hoping too much towards that lofty goal... Well, despite how he might seem, Uncle Vernon had a propensity of being a very perceptive, devious, and cut-throat man. The man was drawn to the proverbial scent of blood like a school of starving sharks in the ocean. Whenever Harry finally resolved to make plans of exactly HOW he would escape his relatives, Vernon inherently knew and set out doubly hard to break him of said determination using the same instincts that saw an overweight, hideous, sexist, bigoted, walrus of a man with a horribly tacky mustache gain a Directorship position at a world-wide drill manufacturing company (namely Grunnings, which Harry intended to remember should he ever make it rich).

Nearly a week later, after Dan finally resumed taking appoints at the dental practice (mortifying and stupefying Harry even more that the man would actually take off two weeks of work for HIM of all people), Harry finally took the advice of the now silent Cloak on opening the book written by his grandmother so many years before.

_To my descendants of Potter and Black, I greet you with ill tidings._

_Within the last century, Doom has come to the Most Ancient and Noble Houses. _

_Charlus and I have read the signs and the Faith are being silenced, family by family. _

_The last Augury went silent during Grindewald's rise, and I fear after the loss of Dumbledore's Phoenix that they too will be lost to the Faith. _

_Lost too is Delphieus's Journal, without our Oracle, how will Magic survive the Rise of the Muggles?_

The foreword continued with stern warnings of Omens and failed Rituals, nearly all of which were worse than meaningless to the young Potter.

What does it matter that Muggles were able to find the corpse of the Great Sphinx of Giza?

What's an Alfgar and why does it matter that their cities were burned?

Who the hell are Delphieus, Loki, and Baldur? Why does it matter if some barmy Oracle hundreds of years ago said 1993 (creepy that) was 'The year the first betrayer flaunts his mark'?

What is a Melchior? A Caspar? A Balthazar? How does something created IN the Earth break?

The Table of Contents were certainly odd enough for a supposed history and genealogy book about Purebloods. Perhaps the name was a misdirection?

If Harry was honest with himself, he was almost certain before opening the book that half the chapters would be about ritually slaughtering Muggles, the Holy Grail of maintaining inbreeding, and how to be a bloody pompous arse. (In his defense, the Rituals were in there, but only as references with dates and reasons they should be performed, not instructions on how to do them.) The curious boy did find it strange, even through the cloudy fog of his dazed state, that the last three chapters had been obviously ripped out of the book. None too gently either.

The very first page on the bloodlines of the Wizarding World rocked the foundations of nearly everything Harry had ever learned about blood purity to his very core.

_I. Active Bloodlines_

_Many unlisted bloodlines have been lost through the ages due to death, mutation, or squib births of more than two generations. One such example, Rowenda Ravenclaw's ability to manipulate time and space, as seen within the reaches of the Come and Go Room within the Heartroom of Hogwarts, was lost when she had her only child murdered for the theft of her Diadem. The control of lightning within the Franklin family was lost forever when his only son was born a Squib and left for the Muggle World, subsequent Squibs every generation leaving the Family little better than Muggle._

_The Wizarding gifts given to those of the Faith, and those of the Circle, by the Alfgar and the Fae are irreplaceable by modern magicals. Once lost, except with the case of the metamorphmagus, these bloodlines have since been permanently lost to the world. From the journals of both Black and Potter, I have managed to reconstruct the reason for the inbreeding that has begun to plague our society within the last four hundred years. Blood purity is not a lie per say, despite what the many of the muggle-loving fools would have one believe. _

_The Alfgar warned those of the Faith to beware those whose blood is new to, or only having just reawakened, magic. If the original Faith were to have kept better record of their allies and enemies, I would document whether the gifts listed below were given by Faith or Fae, but alas that knowledge has long been lost within the sands of time._

_Both races, being as capricious and unpredictable as they were known to be, would find endless amusement within magicals being forced to become their own great-aunt's, or grand-father of their grand-mother through marriage in order to maintain the gifts given to our society. The marriage of my niece and nephew, Walburga and Orion, is a good example of a scenario the beings would find amusement with._

_After reading nearly a dozen journals, and learning of the loss of five bloodlines and the mutation listed below, I have to agree with the need to ensure the purity of blood, but only within the retainers. No retainer of the bloodline should ever marry less than a third generation magical. The wild, chaotic, and untamed power flowing through their magical core does not appear to solidify until at least two full generations of the Family's connection with the gift of Magic to maintain the connection with the bloodlines gift. _

_Should a retainer breed only with one so chaotic, the Bloodline will be either irrevocably lost or mutated forever more._

_Metamorphmagus_

_Retainer(s) - None._

_Abilities - Shape-shifting at a near-cellular level almost equal to the great Alfgar of old. gender, age, weight, height, and length of limbs are all subject to modification._

_Knowledge - The lost bloodline of Helga Hufflepuff herself holds a sad and horrendous past, filled with slavery and exploitation of the worst sort. After dozens of kidnappings and forced breeding, it is little wonder that Helga's gift was lost less than three centuries after her passing. If I were to guess, the unstable first-generational magic within Theodore Tonks was from a Squib line of one of the poor slaves that was used and left for dead during some of our darkest times. Paired with the cross-generational stabilization within the purified Andromeda, the outcome would be obvious. As there has not been a single scenario of spontaneous metamorphmagi since before the loss of the Alfgar, this must be assumed._

_Despite being a mutation of the metamorph bloodline, the metamorphmagus bloodline is listed first as a warning to retainers of the folly of sullying the purified blood with the wild and chaotic first and second generation magicals._

_The metamorphmagus was documented by John of Gaunt as proof of his ancestor's concerns with first-generation magicals and I have been unable to dispute his findings. Two of our greatest ancestors held the metamorph bloodline of a much more powerful sort. Widely known, and documented within the Potter Annuls as accurate, is the duel between Lord Emrys and the Eternal LaFay wherein the powerful magi were able to assume forms through their innate gifts from dragon to dung-beetle with nary a waste of their magical reserves. Since the mutation deep within the War of the Roses, such amazing metamorph abilities have been lost._

_Typically, the first indication of metamorphic ability within a wizard either involves magical control of hair length, fingernail length, or (rarely) waking up suddenly having grown more than two inches in a single night's sleep as the subconscious realizes the body has growth, despite the body's control over preventing the growth._

_This was information not a single pureblood every thought to provide to the shocked Potter. Skimming quickly through the definitions of the various bloodlines, he wondered if perhaps he was not a metamorphmagus himself. As far back as he can remember his hair had only ever been cut once, and grew back exactly as he liked it overnight. Add in his rather large (three inch) growth spurt this summer and he felt it might actually be possible. _

_Parselmouth_

_Retainer(s) - Tom Marvolo Riddle Forty-nine Years_

_Abilities - Able to speak the language of serpents. This includes, but does not appear to be limited to: All snakes, lizards, chameleons, Dragons (of all semi-intelligent forms), etc._

_Knowledge - The Parselmouth bloodline has long been held solely within the recently cursed Gaunt line though, as the author and catching my Husband out once when we took our son James to the Muggle Zoo I know the Potter's hold the Bloodline as well. Dear Charlus actually admitted that the Potters and Gaunts both received the gift through our common ancestors, the Peverells. Tom Marvolo Riddle (of the House of Gaunt) acquired his gift from his squib mother and the second-oldest of the Three Brothers. The Potters from the youngest of the trio._

The young Potter tried to tell Hermione about his find and his grandmother's notes about their family, but kept talking about the weather, the latest mugging, and finally (to his embarrassment) how long his last trip to the lavatory took. He abandoned further attempts at discussing what he realized were Family Secrets after that.

Harry thought back to his OWN trip to the Zoo with the Dursleys a few weeks before Hagrid's arrival and smiled. Even with his mother being a Muggleborn, the Potter's still hold the Parselmouth Bloodline. It made him feel at lot more connected to the family he never knew. He did wonder though why no-one knew the Potters were Parselmouths.

_The Potter Journals from late in the 17th century indicate that nearly a dozen curse-breakers tried to crack the insidious and incestuous curse placed on the family by the wizard hired during the War of the Roses to deal with John of Gaunt's descendants. Lord William Charlus Potter, the Head of House during the crisis, suffered magical exhaustion for nearly a week in bed when his fiancé realized to her disgust that the only male she could bear to touch her was her only brother. May whomever cast such a heinous curse burn in the deepest Hells for such an atrocity. With the murder of the last of the Gaunt line decades prior, I can only assume that perhaps our ancestor Delphius was mistaken in his assumption that the Slytherin bloodline would re-emerge, purified from the disgustingly incestuous curse._

Harry, and Hermione who joined him in reading the untold history with an unbidden glee (despite only getting parts of the information), actually had to stop and retch after reading the passage. The two felt horrible for the ancient Potter and his fiancé. To have your very ability to physically be attracted to the one you love taken from you sounded absolutely horrible and both wholeheartedly agreed with Dorea's thoughts on the matter.

_Empathy_

_Retainer(s) - Pollux Black, Walburga Black nee Black, Dorea Potter nee Black, Bellatrix Lestrange nee Malfoy, Sirius Orion Black, James Charlus Potter_

_Abilities - Ability to read or sense the emotions and/or control the emotions or feelings of others._

_Knowledge - Having this particular ability has given me an in-depth understanding of the trial and error method of exploiting this ability to the greatest benefit. An Empath must first and foremost trust his or her instincts above all else. It is as if the very air we breath, the sounds we hear, and the things we touch are ingrained with a near constant stream of feelings from those around us. Animals, humans, centaurs, goblins, and more. The only creature that I personally have never been able to sense on an empathic level are snakes, perhaps due to the magical nature of the Parselmouth's abilities. _

_An Empath should be particularly wary of any and all contact with Dementors. Their aura of fear and dread is multiplied ten-fold around an Empath, and multiplied more when there are others around feeling the same effects. Perhaps to maintain Balance within Nature however, Arthur's gift allows for a near instinctual understanding of the counter-charm to the presence of the Dementor. Any known Empath should be trained within their first year of formal magical schooling in the casting of the Patronus Charm, found most recently only within the folds of the The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 7) written by the Ministry stooge Miranda Goshawk. _

_The Empath should beware detection, because few of those pretending to be honest and upstanding when they are not can bear one so empowered to live. As of writing this book only my husband and son are aware of the familiar abjuration that allowed the manifestation of my bloodline._

_The weaponized version of the charm was lost during the Ministry Dark Arts purges after their successful negotiation with the dozen still living Dementors when they became the Wardens of Azkaban after the Accord of 1675. My status as a Black however allowed for learning of the charm from our Ancestral Library, the Encyclopedia Magicka. I urge any Empath to entreat the Black Family Head of House for tutoring with the spell._

_Controlling the emotional actions and reactions of others is tricky at best and downright dangerous at worst. Only an Empath with full control of his or her ability should consciously attempt such an endeavor, and then only under controlled circumstances. Making an enemy or friend feel happy, feel great desire, or other action is the equivalent, for example, of a full Veela's Aura. See the records of the rapes, murders, tortures, and deaths of numerous Veela through the ages on the consequences of removing another's inhibitions. At times the most bloodthirsty and disgustingly debase are those one would least expect._

_Removing, or dulling, emotional reactions from those around the Empath however, are decidedly less dangerous and have little chance of eliciting an unexpected reaction. _

_As my dear Charlus can attest, an Empath is a powerful ally throughout any walk of life. Their truth-reading skills surpassing even the vaunted Veritaserum used within the Ministry. If untrained however, secure the beleaguered soul instruction in the Mind Magics post-haste. An untrained is victim to the emotions and intent of all those around him or her without sufficient mental defenses. What a horrible fate to bestow upon even the young. Despite their horridness, the Goblins can also be relied upon for creation of warded amulets that will mimic the effects of Occlumency for a calendar year if the need arises. Standard Occlumency, despite the texts indicating otherwise, was insufficient for controlling the emotional output other others around me during my development. Father told Pollux at one point that the Black Family wrote the texts as such intentionally. An Empath that succeeds in clearing their mind, as necessary for Occlumency, is actually collapsing all protections and shields they may have. One should be wrapped... ..._

Harry cursed loudly when he turned the page to find that the rest of the information on how to control empathic abilities were ripped out along with the missing three sections of the book. He tossed it in his rucksack after slamming it shut and cursing loudly.

Had gave a very real grin and a fond smile to Hermione when she unconsciously corrected him, despite the fact that they were the only two people in the house. Both her parents were working the day at the dental practice and Miranda ended up going on a mid-summer sleep-over a the neighbors.

Hermione, being the far more mature and sophisticated lady that she is, stuck her tongue out at him and blew him a raspberry.

"So where would we find information on Empaths and Octo... Occo... Occlumency?" Harry asked, munching on his B.L.T., getting a frown from Hermione for talking with his mouth full. She didn't actually comment since he didn't spray it everywhere as Ron is wont to do, but it is still a less than endearing habit. Then his eyes widened at what he might have unintentionally revealed. "I mean... um..."

Whatever Hermione might had said in response became delayed when two ugly, tired looking owls slammed into the recently cleaned sliding doors at full speed. Luckily for the owls the glass didn't shatter, but that might be up for debate.

The pair of teens cheered and started chittering excitedly (after they for the owls settled with some bacon and water) over the arrival of their Hogwarts letters for next year. Harry tried to grab his and open it, but Hedwig had other ideas.

After a rather impressive aerial dive-bomb, Harry's unopened letter found its way in her beak where she promptly tossed it directly on to the lit Bunsen-Burner Hermione planned on using to help Harry prepare for the upcoming years potions. Harry tried grabbing at his crazed familiar before she managed to destroy his letter, but Hedwig proved that she is more than a match for Gryffindor's star Seeker. Harry reached for it, but the letter burst into a plethora of green, blue, yellow, and red sparks that scorched the table and doused the flame.

The two teens stared.

"What...?"

Hermione, being the living encyclopedia that she is, not only recovered first, but realized exactly why Hedwig reacted in such a manner. "H-Har-ry... Stop!" The emerald eyes boy stopped in chasing after his deftly spinning and flapping familiar to give his best friend a questioning stare. "I think your Hogwarts letter had some sort of charm on it. Hedwig protected you."

Harry looked confused, but Hermione's words were confirmed when Hedwig dropped on to Hermione's shoulder and nodded at her ofttimes annoying and frustrating Pet before nibbling lightly at the bushy-haired girl's ear in an affectionate manner. The look the vain little owl turned on Harry clearly said 'SHE deserves it. You may apologize now.'

Harry wasted no time in alternatively thanking and apologizing to his devious little friend profusely until the owl deigned to acknowledge his apologies and let her human shower her with praise.

They discussed the potentially charmed letter for a few minutes before deciding to shift their focus on the school booklist accompanying Hermione's letter instead. They could figure out the issue with Harry's letter later.

"Gilderoy Lockhart?" Harry mumbled aloud, unfamiliar with the author of seven of the eight books needed for the upcoming term.

Hermione GUSHED. Completely unused to such a... girly reaction from the prim and proper Granger, Harry just stared. "Oh my gosh! Gilderoy Lockhart is the greatest wizard of our age! ... They say he's the next Dumbledore! I've read all of his books! Well not 'Magical Me' of course... As you of course know, he hasn't released it yet. I already asked Mum if we can go to the book signing on Wednesday..."

By the end of her rant, which she somehow forced out in a single breath, she cheeks were flushed red all the way back to her neck. If Harry was a more normal teenager, he would probably tease his friend about her obvious crush, yet he found he really couldn't care less. After his... less than stellar Professor trying to kill him the year before, not to mention just how terrible of a teacher Voldemort made, Harry's enthusiasm for his favorite subject waned more than a little bit. Beyond that, Harry's ability to interact with Hermione on... girly things extended about as far as he could throw Dudley with two broken arms. Instead he just gave her a small smile.

"Um... Right. I'm... gonna head to the training room." Harry finally said after a few minutes, more than a little creeped out by the dazed looking smile on Hermione's face and the slightly glazed look in her eyes.

It did hurt a little but though when she didn't even acknowledge his departure.

- 4 - 4 - 4 -

Frustration and rage.

Pure, unbridled and unrivaled rage.

Still trapped and stranded alone and unknown in the ever expansive darkness, the gem-eyed being summoned hundreds, if not thousands, of random objects ranging in size from a marble to a mountain before blasting or having them blasted out of existence. The very air filling the limitless expanse became supercharged by hate and madness filled magic, the dark expansive becoming colder and even more unwelcoming as the spirit burned through its all encompassing rage.

Both gems slowly started to bleed into an anger and hate-filled purple as the inferno of emotions expanded throughout the now thoroughly lavender-tinted air filling the expanse before intensified ten times over.

The vengeful revenant cursed in silence for days before the twin gems finally dulled back to their original colors, the energies and ancient magics powering the spirit's tethered existence finally spent, if only for a short while.

One green, one blue, both gems sparkled a promise of direst vengeance in the silent, judging, and unforgiving darkness.

- 4 - 4 - 4 -

Harry never felt more welcome, or more of an estranged outsider, than the following trip to Diagon Alley to witness Gilderoy Lockhart's book signing and purchase their school supplies for the upcoming term.

Thankfully Ron and the rest of the Weasley clan met them in the Leaky Cauldron, giving Harry an outlet outside of Dan and Emma to avoid Hermione's... fanatical state. Since the school letter arrived on Saturday, his best friend couldn't seem to think of anything else but the 'dreamy' and 'amazing' Lockhart. Harry, in response to the rather blatant snubbing offered by Hermione once the booklist arrived, spent a great deal of time in the training room. He had even talked with Hermione about teaching her the wandless magic he worked out with Cloak (not really planning on mentioning said mentor), but in the end just practiced alone.

Mrs. Weasley surprised Harry by sweeping him up in a heavy-handed hug that he swore popped his back a few times while cheerfully greeting the Granger family. He did not however miss the calculative look Mrs. Weasley tossed between Ron and Hermione a few moments later that unsettled him a little. She turned out to be a rather plump yet cheerful mother to every child in he general vicinity. The rest of Ron's family, along with Mrs. Weasley herself, all sported the same blazing orange-red hair their entire family is apparently known for throughout the Wizarding World. Harry didn't get a chance to meet Ron's dad since (as it is a Wednesday) he had to work. Ron's little sister Jimmy squeaked and ran behind Mrs. Weasley when Harry said Hi, so the raven haired teen had to consent himself with greeting Percy and the Twins.

"Hey... Um... You alright mate?" A very embarrassed and red faced Ron questioned in a nervous mumble as the two browsed the newest brooms on sale after separating from the enamored women of the group. The Nimbus 2001, if Quidditch Weekly is to believed, sports a top speed almost fifteen miles an hour higher than own Nimbus 2000. After reading more than few critiques on the slower turn radius and hesitant response to vertical climbs made Harry even more content with his trusty Nimbus 2000 since the Wronski Feint (a rather death defying dive straight at the ground) happens to be Harry's go-to move for messing with the heads of opposing Seekers.

"I'm fine." Harry responded back in his own embarrassed mumble, trying to get Ron to move back on less annoying topics. Harry felt a huge sense of happiness and contentment when Hermione told him that Ron and the Twins actually tried their own ill-advised rescue mission on the night Harry made his escape. That didn't help however the small feelings of resentment that still blossomed in Harry's chest whenever he thought about Ron and the Weasleys and even to an extent Hermione herself. He couldn't help it.

Despite everything Harry and Hermione went through the prior year... The Cerberus, Professor Snape's constant vitriol, getting Hagrid's baby dragon (a soon to be massive, deadly, fire-breathing, poisonous Norwegian Ridgeback that the gentle Half-Giant named 'Norbert'), meeting Quirellmort and the centaurs in the woods while trying to save a dying unicorn (for a detention with Hagrid assigned over the dragon debacle), and the quest for Nicolas Flammel's Philosopher's Stone... yet... in the end... Just like all the chores through his childhood, the Harry hunting, ... even the shade of Quirrellmort in the forest and the final step to protect the Stone itself... Harry faced his trials alone.

The idea that, invariably, Harry would face all the greatest trials of his life completely and utterly alone just would not leave him. It was one of the spurring factors (outside of Hermione's snubbing over the last few days) in his decision to start working and studying on his own for the upcoming school year. Even Hermione's... rescue didn't come until Harry managed to free himself from Vernon's pseudo jail-cell just like Dumbledore's rescue came through after Quirrell already died under Harry's hands.

"Um... Good... Brilliant!" Ron mumbled happily, the reddish tint to his ears fading slightly at the perfect excuse to drop the subject. Ron Weasley likes taking things as they come. If his best mate Harry Potter says Harry Potter is fine, then obviously he is. End of story.

"Harry! Ron!" An excited Hermione called loudly from outside the shop, "Come ON! The book signing has started! HE'S HERE!""

"Mental, that one is." Ron muttered to Harry with a fond grin aimed at the retreating back of their other friend. With her behavior over the last few days, Harry couldn't help but agree with a nod of his head.

The duo dutifully followed their zealot of a friend as she squealed her way back into line next to a cheering Mrs. Weasley and an equally squealing Mrs. Granger. Looking around, all Harry can see in any given direction is cringing and cowering men and boys everywhere paired with alternatively squealing, cheering, blushing, and (to Harry and Ron's absolute horror) throwing their underwear.

Harry felt even more horrified then ABSOLUTELY mortified when one of the younger witches, possibly one of his own classmates, saw him and chunked her rather lacy underwear to Harry with a saucy wink and a lick of her lips.

"Blimey Harry!" Ron gasped out, drawing the attention, unfortunately, of a poncy blonde man sitting at a nearby table surrounded by no less than five dozen (at least) pictures of himself in various poses. His fashion sense left EVERYTHING to be desired as in every picture he appeared with a glaringly white smile with teeth that reminded Harry of the perfectly formed dentures one of the older neighbors at Surrey wore and clashed wretchedly with the glaringly painful eyesore robes that matched his equally semi-glowing eyes. All in all, in the two-ish seconds Harry had to evaluate the man before he found an arm wrapped around his shoulders, the only picture Harry could draw from the man came out of the greedy and rather evilish gleam that passed through his eyes.

"HARRY POTTER!" The man cheered out loudly, drawing the attention of pretty much everyone around as Harry struggled to free himself from the surprisingly strong grip of the man. Memories from his childhood that he kept at bay for years by sheer force of will started to overwhelm him when a bright flash stole his eyesight.

CRACK.

Harry's eyes adjusted to the sounds of gasps echoing outward a like a wave and he felt himself freed and clutched protectively in a familiar pair of strong arms accompanied by the now familiar scent of old leather.

"I don't know who in the HELL you think you are, but as far as I'm aware molesting and assaulting children in public is illegal for anyone!" Harry's eyes cleared to find himself in the arm of Dan Granger while his other remained pointing down with a burning glare towards the ponce on the ground.

"C'mon Harry; we're leaving. We'll get our supplies another day when potential child molesters aren't around."

Hermione and Mrs. Gra... Emma started to protest, but a stern glare from Dan silenced them both.

- 4 - 4 - 4 -


	5. The Hunt is on

**DISCLAIMER: That part of this world and those characters you've seen before belong to their Creator: JKR. The rest is mine - although I cannot quit my day job as I make no $$$**

Also, please apply aforementioned disclaimer to chapters 1-4. I'm sure I'll get around to it one day after a good Beta slams through my chapters and makes me feel like a novice.

Author's Note:

- AN -

- Chapter 5 -The Hunt is on.

The society of Greater Magical Britannia are a peculiar bunch.

Referred to often as having 'fallen out of the Victorian Age' by many of the more educated first generation magical students that interact with the higher tiers of European magical society on a regular basis, the Wizarding Elite lean towards unconscious bigotry reflected amongst the ennobled of the Victorian Age as opposed to the more... intentional displays shown by a select few. Luckily (for these Elite), these students count in less than ten percent of the first generation magicals that actually INTERACT with the Wizarding Elite at any given time and only the rare few of those are actually well-educated enough to make such a comparison.

Though this educational gap has been closing at a truly 'magical' rate amongst the first generation magicals in the last hundred years.

Good examples of these first generation magicals would be such notable wizards and witches as Theodore Tonks (the muggleborn barrister and husband of Andromeda Tonks nee Black, a well respected member of the Black family before her disownment), Penelope Clearwater (a up-and-coming Ravenclaw Potions Mistress already rumored to have secured an Apprenticeship after Hogwarts despite her status as a first generation magical), and Harry's own best friend and new surrogate sister Hermione Granger.

Status, gold, and prestige are the lifeblood of the western Wizarding Society, and not necessarily in that order.

Having status can allow one such as Cornelius Fudge to the MInister of Magic's office (despite being a near-Squib with an inferiority complex the size of Mount Rushmore) or give the last Squib-son of the Ancient House of Filch a permanent career working in the venerated and highly magical school of Hogwarts despite being completely unable to complete even one-fifteenth of the required job duties to even be hired for such a post. Prestige, or PR for the non-magicals of the world, is not nearly so benign amongst the Wizarding Elite. Prestige is in no way about having and creating the right image to pander to the populace, simply because with all Wizengamot positions being hereditary or assigned by the Wizengamot there is no populace to pander to. Prestige is built on who you know and, more importantly, what you know about them. The perfect example of a woman with an extreme level of prestige in the Wizarding World, despite how universally reviled she remains by even those whom have made the mistake of hiring her over the years, is one Delores Jane Umbridge. Her own roots as a technical half-blood by the standards of the Elite became unimportant when she began systematically digging up the skeletons of various Department Heads, Heads of Houses, and Directors throughout the Ministry of Magic. The power of "Lady" Umbridge's Prestige can clearly be seen in her recent appointment to the coveted office of Undersecretary to the Minister, which is actually third in line to become Minister of Magic should the Wizengamot be unable or unwilling to appoint a new Minister between election terms.

As Cornelius Fudge, the most recent (and near useless) Minister for Magic managed to snag his election to the highest office while only being the equivalent of a mail-clerk working for the Department of the Regulation of Magical Creatures - Goblin Liason Office where he immediately appointed his 'good friend' Delores to a post she in no-way qualified for, the woman obviously has a great deal of blackmail material on the current Minister. More than a few citizens (and even Wizengamot members) wonder often if there might be more to the 'Rotfang Conspiracy' heralded by _The Quibbler _than anyone wants to realize.

Goblin meat pies indeed!

The final, and probably most powerful, currency amongst the Wizarding Elite is gold. Gold is the reason why the great-grandson of a man disinherited from the Delacour Family whose descendants were magically bound with the moniker "Bad Faith" could be the most trusted advisor of said Minister. Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. Only technically a first-generation Pureblood, due to being disinherited by his French ancestors, Lucius has not a single vote on the Wizengamot and cannot hold office within the Ministry (due to his and his son's status as 'foreign usurpers'), yet his word is practically law amongst the British Wizarding society and has been since his marriage to the daughter of the House of Black nearly thirty years prior. Lucius, in all probability, would not have nearly the political capital he currently enjoys if not for his son's status as assumed Heir to said House, but that is a story for another day.

To overcome the lack of prestige and bury the state of their status, the Malfoy Family has seemingly opened their coffers to the corrupt and elite of the Wizarding World. Millions upon millions of galleons have been spent from the Black Vaults (since only his wife can enter) to open doors normally closed for one with such a 'barbaric' background. Such behavior saw his great-grandfather disinherited for breaking 'the Faith' and nearly leaving destitute the House of Delacour a hundred years prior and Lucius learned his father's lessons well. Millions flow out of the Black Vaults yet more flows right back in.

Every Committee Lucius gathers donations for and donates to tends to follow the words of an old Muggle author. "Every road leads to Malfoy".

The largest donation ever given to St. Mungo's by any wizard in history came from his father, Abraxas, and after collecting equal donations from other concerned citizens to match his 'generous gift to the people' only one galleon in five actually went anywhere but the Malfoy and Black Vaults. Probably the reason why the recently deceased (despite his relatively good health at the time) Head of House Black, Arcturus, never put the uppity French snob in his place.

However, the Wizarding Elite as stated previously are a peculiar people. Status and Prestige can be purchased, but must always be maintained through either Ancestry or gallantry. This is where the true Victorian roots of the current Wizarding Elite shine through greater than any other. The Malfoys hold gallas, balls, and more at least six to ten times more than any other family, but obviously need a location to host such events.

Enter Malfoy Manor. The House Manor is not just a statement of status, prestige, or gold to the self-enobled wizards and witches, the Manor is their statement of wealth and property. Without a 'proper' Manor, there can be no 'proper' House. The current Malfoy Manor once belonged to a mostly forgotten Most Ancient and Most Noble House. Said House being 'mostly forgotten' because every member suffered under a 'mysterious' plague just five years after Abraxas's father arrived in the United Kingdom with French Aurors hot on the tails of his petticoat.

Now, the brilliant and cunning minds of a family that follows the edicts, teachings, and back-door dealings of the notorious American Squib Rockefeller are not necessarily important at this early point of the tale.

Those ambitious wizards whom learned from the yellow-skinned foreigners however are important.

One in particular.

Manor Houses, regardless of how low or high a man might desire to reach in the Wizarding World are the... mantlepieces, lynchpins if you will, necessary 'prove' your 'status' amongst the gallant (in their own minds) elite. They do tend to have a few downsides however.

Namely wards and the costs, perils, and stigmata that come along with them. Again, being a peculiar people, Wizards only truly respect fellow Wizards that sport impressive, and oddly the most deadly, ward-schemes to leave their enemies in fear for their very existence or regretting their parents decision to ignore the wonderful virtues of abstinence. The MOST peculiar (and some say amusing) aspect of society's expectations is that roughly eighty percent of the most 'respectable' ward-scheme have been illegal to have or install for more than a century.

The Fidelius Charm being one of these due to the inherent perils to society the charm posed.

The greatest peril amongst the Pureblood higher society revolves around the very 'safety' these wards provide.

If a tree falls in an empty forest, does it make a sound?

If a man screams in unbelievable, heart-wrenching pain for hours on end, does anyone hear it?

The man splayed out amongst dozens of pillows on the top of the line four poster bed struggled constantly against the unseen assault, his normally aristocratic features twisted into a grimace of absolute pain.

Within the hour, his body started twitching and spasming as if under the effects of a highly charged Crucatious Curse. At the three hour mark the scream held back only by his state of unconsciousness at the beginning of the magical assault burst from his chest and throat, echoing through the manor house where he resided.

As he lived alone, the consummate bachelor living in the lap of luxury, no one heard or cared about the man's tortured screams that echoed throughout the the two foot thick stone walls for nearly a full twenty four hours.

His burning purple eyes finally burst open, the pain receding alongside the bright glow emanating from his eyes, leaving a miasma of dark magic hanging in the air with the scent of sulfur.

After another hour, two gemlike eyes of blue and green glittered maliciously.

A victorious and satisfied smirk adorned the man's face in an expression never worn by the man ever before.

- 5 - 5 - 5 -

Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-Assaulted!

Cross-Potter?

Lockhart Book Signing... A Check He Couldn't Cash

Harry smirked at the most recent Daily Prophet headline and would have read the article if the publishers hadn't decided to spend an entire page and a half questioning Harry's sexual preferences. His slight smile faded into a frustrated grimace as he leaned back and covered his eyes with his forearm, relaxing slightly on the cushions against his back.

Should he even HAVE a sexual preference? Sure, Harry started noticing girls a bit more over the summer, especially after a rather embarrassing accident involving Emma and the upstairs shower, but he's twelve for Merlin's sake!

The conversation with Dr. Granger (who he couldn't call Dan or even Mr. Granger at the moment) proved to Harry that his mortification over realizing he still held the Slytherin girl's laced emerald thong after crossing through the Leaky Cauldron didn't even begin to touch the level of embarrassment Harry could experience in his life.

Regardless of his embarrassment over the situation, his esteem and regard for the Grangers only grew in the last days of summer. Not only did Dan, a muggle, protect him and face down a full blown wizard in front of hundreds of the man's supporters, but he and his wife obviously cared a great deal for Harry's well-being.

Being reminded to shower and brush his teeth would have caused a great of resentment in a normal teenager, but having people actually care about him is a feeling that will probably never grow old for Harry. Better still, having people actually looking out for him gave a heady feeling Harry never wanted to relinquish. The strange warmth that kept blossoming in his chest hurt, but in a good way. Harry tried to identify the new sensations over the few weeks with the Grangers, but found himself unsuccessful. The only emotion he could really put a name to is the bittersweet feelings of sadness Harry has experienced so often over the years.

Harry thought when moving in with the Grangers he would simply be another helping hand around the house, but otherwise of little notice. That's how his life living with another family was before after all, why would it change now? Yet Hermione's parents seemed determined to treat him like their own child, something that meant the world to the young orphan. They seemed to make the transition from having a single child to a pair of children without missing a beat, the pair of genial and kind adults (something Harry DEFINITELY had to get used to when Hagrid wasn't involved) even joked that it seemed like they'd been raising two children for as long as they could remember. They even built him his own bookshelves in the spare bedroom so he could start a library just like Hermione did in the attic and smiled indulgently and nodded when he shyly asked if the bookshelves could come with him to Hogwarts.

Harry laughed quietly at the memory of Hermione's indignation when her parents pointed out to her that the opinionated young woman finally had the sibling she always wanted.

"Something funny Harry?" The girl sitting opposite him in the far-back train-car asked with an excited, beaming smile on her face.

Hermione certainly dressed her best for the day. A light blue summer dress that accented her curves nicely, though Harry just thought she looked 'nice'. Regardless of the incident with Emma in the shower, Harry didn't get what the older boys, Dean, and Seamus usually meant when they kept talking about girls curves. As far as Harry was concerned, girls just tended to look nicer than boys. Dan would probably be shocked that after the highly detailed explanation (complete with color coordinated charts, pictures, and graphs) that Harry remained as clueless about the opposite sex as he always has been. The elder Granger would be equally shocked to know that his eldest daughter chose her current manner of dress specifically for the very boy he found himself giving "The Talk" to.

Leave it to Hermione to be one of the few people (outside of Harry) to be immensely happy to have to return to the drudgery of professors, homework, classes, and school in general.

The duo arrived early to skip the crowds (something Harry appreciated immensely) and headed for 'their' cabin. It couldn't really be called 'their' cabin as they only rode on it as a group during the ride back at the end of last school year, but Hermione apparently used it during the Christmas and Easter Hols as well so... Yeah. Now they were just waiting for the last member of their little trio to finally arrive with his family. If the gossip-mill remained spot-on, they should be in for a show as the Weasley's were supposedly like clock-work in their inability to arrive at the station at any time before the moment the train started to leave the station. Apparently, per Katie (one of the Gryffindor Quidditch Girls), last year was something of an abjuration for the red-headed family in that they actually for the first time EVER managed to arrive not just on time, but early. A passing Ravenclaw even commented that the curse seemed to pass back even to the elder Weasley, Arthur, when his dad Septimus used to drop him off.

Raising his eyes to see the questioning smirk on his friend's face, Harry just shook his head and gave a gentle smile that didn't actually reach his eyes.

"Best summer ever." That's all that needs to be said really. Not to mention Harry remained a little uncomfortable around Hermione after the last few weeks of dealing with her sycophant behavior (and drooling) over the ever interesting and unending tales and achievements of one Gilderoy Lockhart. There's only so many times Harry can stand to hear how wonderful his eyes look, that his favorite color is... something pukey..., and that the man even invented a spell to cure lycanthropy.

Harry won't deny that the thought of werewolves make him a little nervous, but what if they didn't want to be cured? Surely there were SOME benefits right? Otherwise why would there be so many werewolves? Or vampires for that matter?

Hermione gave him a second beaming and went back to her light reading, completely oblivious to the frustrated thoughts rattling around in Harry's head like a boxed bludger.

Harry did pause in his macabre ponderings to wonder just how heavy the three foot wide, foot and a half thick book currently perched primly in her lap weighed. His brain shorted out momentarily when it tried to give him any ideas on how she successfully managed to completely avoid the razor-tipped barbs covering the entire book. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. Hermione still fumed slightly about missing out on Lockhart's autograph, but not where her dad could hear her. Harry just tried to listen patiently when he wasn't hiding in the training room.

Harry's own library got a second upgrade for the summer when they made a return trip to Diagon Alley only a few days ago to get the rest of their school lists. He managed to nick the book '_Curses and Counter-Curses'_ by Vindictus Viridian that Hagrid steered him away from last year after noticing a handful of the nastier jinxes Malfoy liked to use on fellow soon-to-be second year Gryff, Neville, and a bunch of random books that ended up in his basket just because they looked interesting. He even found one written by someone that has to be at least distantly related, even if he couldn't find the man on the self-updating family-tree his grandmother included in her book.

'_Davey's Divine Dividens'_ by David Delphineus Potter. He read about half a chapter, but it seemed like WAY too much of the maths for the early am when Harry glanced through the book and he figured he'd pick it up later. Who knew Divination had so many calculations in it?

Ron and the rest of the Weasley's arrived in time to jump on a variety of the platforms between carriages after the train already started building up steam to pull out of the station. Harry and Hermione took one look at each other before laughing so hard at their friend's troubles that tears started flowing out of the duo's eyes. When Ron stepped on a BANANA peel of all things and ended up flat on his arse, the two took another look at each other before breaking down again. Said peel that just HAPPENED to hit the ground when one of the twins passed their younger brother

Harry started wiping his eyes to get out the tears and felt a small leathery hand wrap around his wrist and another cover his mouth. He tried to scream, but before even putting together a response the very air around the young wizard pressed in like a clamp and his body felt for all the world as if every single piece of his being began shredding to pieces around him. His ears picked up the sound of a loud pop (before popping themselves) as reality reasserted itself and his body crashed to the hard-packed dirt ground with an audible thump.

Once he managed to catch his breath, Harry blinked a few times to get the remaining tears from his eyes and looked around.

Trees. Dirt. More trees.

The wide-eyed Potter spun full circle and looked everywhere him with his mouth agape wide enough to catch the fabled mosquitoes of the Moors (fabled to reach sizes exceeding labradors). Nothing but green foliage and five to ten foot thick trunks surrounded him on all sides.

Someone dropped him in the middle of no-where!

"Bloody hell..."

Harry blinked with a dumbstruck expression on his face as he could have SWORN he heard Hermione correct him.

- 5 - 5 - 5 -

Ron, Hermione, and Ron's little sister Jimmy (Ginny) sat through the Sorting Feast with frayed nerves and complete frustration. Neither one felt much like eating and the empty space currently filled with a new first year that kept harping on how much he was looking forward to meeting the 'Great Harry Potter' just made their appetite disappear that much quicker. Ron did manage to force himself through two servings of everything (as opposed to his normal six for Feast-days), but his heart wasn't in it.

The pair of Second Years harbored no small amount of guilt you see.

It took Ron nearly an hour to find a rather irate Hermione sitting in an absolute huff for reasons she absolutely refused to tell him. (When Harry and Hermione said that they would meet him in their 'usual' carriage, he thought she meant the one up front that Dean and Seamus usually claimed for a few rounds of Gobstones and Wizard's Chess.) After nearly an hour of uncomfortable silence, Hermione finally cracked and asked when Harry planned to show back up.

Ron's look of utter bewilderment and confusion only made her angrier. Her incomprehensible rant went on in a similar manner for a full five minutes before the Weasley's famous temper finally boiled over.

"Bloody Hell 'Mione! What are you blathering on about!" he snapped angrily, his ears flaming out in red when her screeching quickly capped right over the limits of his (albeit small) temper.

The barmy girl just huffed and a response men the world over instantly recognize... and dread. "Well if you don't know by now I'm certainly not going to tell you!" Her piece said, the bushy-haired witch gave a second more meaningful and accusatory huff before retreating behind her book, effectively putting an end to any further conversation on the matter.

Ron tended to be a bit thick, something he sometimes will freely admit (depending entirely on the audience of said statement). It doesn't take a genius however to recognize a phrase used by his mother on his dad, his oldest brother Bill (now working out of country as a Gringotts Curse-Breaker in Egypt), his second oldest brother Charlie (also as far as he can... working outside the country as a Dragon Handler), his third oldest brother Percy, and... well just about every male his mother ever got into a disagreement with. Ginny too come to think of it.

His temper vanished as swiftly as it arrived and he likewise clammed up to avoid whatever ire Harry managed to earn from Hermione. The young red-head learned at a very early age that the best way to avoid any and all righteous feminine anger is to completely disassociate yourself from the offending party. In layman's terms, Harry got thrown under the proverbial lorrie.

"Err..." Ron said at length, getting no reaction from his brainiac friend, "So I'm going to go see what Dean and Seamus have been up to." His piece said, Ron scampered out of there faster than a niffler moves in a dodgy pawn shop.

The plethora of razors in the form of a book didn't even twitch though the young girl behind it did deign to respond. "You do that." The way she said it made Ron cringe badly (and scamper faster). Harry IS so in for it. The last time Ron heard a girl talk in that tone the Twins couldn't sit down for a week and Ginny only had Mum's wand for a whole thirty seconds before Percy managed to nab it from the irate preteen.

Being the friend he is however, Ron set off across the train to find his other best friend and warn him of the impending doom. Two full trips (and a wasted two hours) up and down the trail between carriages left Ron just as annoyed with his clearly hiding best friend.

Smart chap and all, but Harry didn't have to hide from Ron. Hermione was the one blew her gasket.

Ron ended joining Dean and Seamus for a few rounds of Gobstones and Exploding Snap when he finally gave up on the hiding Harry. With the invisibility cloak his best mate got for Christmas last year, Ron knew that if Harry didn't want to be found then Harry just wouldn't be found, simple as that.

All thoughts of Harry fell from Ron's mind until a clearly fuming Hermione showed up when the Hogwarts Express finally parked at Hogsmeade Station with a determined and angry glint in her eyes.

"Alright. This has gone on far enough and it wasn't funny to begin with. Where's Harry?"

Ron gave her the same look of bafflement he did when she first asked the question. "Um... Wasn't he with you?"

"Well obviously NOT!" She snapped back. "Just as soon as you lot came through the barrier he scampered off!" Ron wisely avoided mentioning his own scampering.

Ron stared for a minute before shrugging. "Guess he's trying to have us both on then. I never saw him either." Ron didn't think much of Harry's rather sad attempt at a prank. After dealing with Bill, Ginny, and (most ESPECIALLY) the Twins his whole life, his best mate's attempt at a prank fell rather flat.

Halfway through the Sorting, Hermione finally realized something might be wrong.

"Ron." She tried to hiss quietly after McGonnall called another firsty to be sorted. A stern look from the same woman quelled her voice and forcing the young Gryffindor to dig in her emergency supplies for her third layer supplies. Consisting of a quill, an inkpot, and a few rolls of parchment, Ron knew his friend only broke out her rations for things she considered emergencies. Usually of the academic, brainy sort.

His eyes went wide and horror blossomed on his face when he read her note.

_'Something's wrong. I think Harry is missing.'_

- 5 - 5 - 5 -

After calling out at the top of his lungs for nearly thirty minutes to see if ANYONE might be around, Harry sat down on a felled limb nearby to consider his options.

He (thankfully) carried his belongings in the mokeskin pouch around his neck, which meant R.I.P.'s wand sat available in his tent. He never used the foodstuffs he dropped in the stasis box which meant he had enough food and drink for at least three weeks.

Harry thought back to the nature documentaries his listened to through his cupboard as a child. The Dursleys obviously never watched them, but they came on fairly often after Aunt Petunia's shows in the early afternoons when she left the television on and went upstairs for a mid-afternoon kip.

One of the first rules when lost is to try and stay put until help could arrive. Harry frowned at the thought though as he basically 'got lost' at King's Cross Station aboard the Hogwarts Express. If the documentary was anything to go by, that meant that the search parties would probably start at King's Cross and make there way from there. Considering how few public parks were even AROUND King's Cross station, not even mentioning how little it looked like civilization might have encroached into... where-ever HERE actually is...

Only weeks after his realization that he only had himself to rely on and somehow he's in another situation where he has to rely on others just like when he passed out in at the Dursleys.

It was... disconcerting.

He did hope, belatedly, that Hermione would quickly realize something might be wrong the moment Harry vanished right in front of her eyes. Even in the Wizarding World, that kind of thing isn't exactly normal under any given circumstance. People disappearing only happened if you had an invisibility cloak as far as Harry is aware (which, admittedly, Harry does in fact have). Five hours of reading through his Potions text later, and finishing off the only unfinished essay he managed to hide from his oft-times bossy bushy-haired bibliophile friend out of sheer boredom and Harry started to get worried.

As hunger started to set in some time later Harry frowned and cast his eyes to the sky. Provided he's at least in the same time-zone it would probably be sometime around six o'clock (an observation the sun seemed to agree to). Reluctantly, Harry realized that if someone didn't arrive soon he would have no choice but to set up his tent.

He didn't necessarily need the torn and ratty looking (yet wonderfully brilliant) tent itself per-say, provided help arrived before dark, it was the contents of the tent that his mind focused on at the moment. The young displaced wizard didn't really want to take the half hour to set up his tent just to have to break it down five minutes later, but his rumbling stomach remained exceedingly and demandingly adamant.

Whereas Harry had the foresight to stick his new compartmental trunk inside the mokeskin pouch alongside his tent (so he didn't have to set up the tent in the dorm just to retrieve his stuff when he finally arrived at the Gryffindor Second Year Dorms), all of his food remained in the confines of the tent's stasis box.

If Harry wanted to eat then setting up the tent became a requirement.

Using his burgeoning wandless abilities to try and set up the tent as a distraction from the onset of boredom (and frustration) ended in disaster. Cloak always said it took immense concentration to use and the state he left the supplies in just proved it. It took him almost an extra thirty minutes to retrieve all the poles and from where the flew all over the forest when he tried to lift one of poles with his magic in his rather distraught and distracted state.

Harry grudgingly admitted, if only to himself, the wisdom of Cloak's advice on wandless magic. It really IS much more unrefined. Is it really any wonder that the few practitioners of wandless magics tend to stick to transfigurations and spells they were intimately familiar with.

After munching down a hearty sandwich, refusing to acknowledge the echo from Cloak's speech about being well fed affecting his magic, Harry sighed heavily and decided to check the time. Instead of checking his watch as normal, Harry decided to try out one of the new charms they should be learning in Professor Flitwick's class this year.

Pulling out his spare wand and twisting it while tapping his arm, he softly called "Tempus".

The Tempus Charm, based on his Charms book, tapped into a massive 'array' set up in the late 1800's by a joint effort between the various Ministries of Magic throughout Europe to allow any witch or wizard a fail-safe way to always know the exact time in whatever European time-zone they might be in. Apparently the various Departments of Magical Sports kept having Quidditch games delayed by the lack of accurate starting times between the games. Harry got a laugh when he read about Ron's favorite team the Chudley Cannons actually missing a game because all of their pocket watches somehow moved backwards three days, leaving the poor team to arrive a day and a half after their opponents caught the Snitch. (Harry decided to try and find out what the book meant by 'array' later.)

Harry sighed dejectedly after he read the time. Already after seven in the afternoon. He parted the curtains to confirm the evening already descending and picked up the Brothers Grimm book that Cloak urged him to buy out of a morbid sense of curiosity.

'_The Annotated Magical Brothers Grimm Fae Tome of Tall Tales_'

After flipping through a handful of stories, he decides to look through one of the stories he remembers hearing the teacher read to the class during primary while he sat in the hall for taunting his cousin. (Dudley had been instantly forgiven for throwing Harry into the desk once his cousin explained that Harry made fun of him.)

'Hansel and Lady Gretal'

- 5 - 5 - 5 -

The spirit now living hidden deep within the hallowed halls of mighty Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry stewed patiently for hours before realizing something had to be wrong.

The spirit knew that his target should have arrived alongside the youngest male Weasley a few hours into the Sorting Feast, yet whereas the red-head arrived alone (and on time) of the boy he prepared to unleash his rage upon there remained no sign.

Nothing good could come of this deviation from the weave he planned out.

The vengeful spirit began reevaluating plan after plan, his gem-stone eyes gleaming with a purple hew. How badly would it affect his plans if he called in one of his assets early? What might change for the upcoming years?

The Boy-Who-Lived MUST come to Hogwarts!

- 5 - 5 - 5 -

By the end of the Feast, Ron and Hermione knew something definitely had to be wrong. They tried to approach Professor McGonagall, but the stiff and aloof professor rebuffed them sternly and stated, quite clearly, that whatever their problem might be could certainly wait until morning.

"I'm sure it is very important Ms. Granger, but I will thank you to wait until a proper hour to discuss your class schedule! Especially when I haven't even handed them out yet!"

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is truly a magical school. With a varying population of anywhere from the current population of over eight hundred currently enrolled First through Seventh Years or the previous highest enrollment of fifteen hundred students at the turn of the century, rarely do any of the students notice more than a few hundred of their fellow students at any given time even when the Great Hall is at its most packed.

The current Headmaster, one Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, also happens to hold the prestigious and coveted role of the Wizengamot's Chief Warlock, the only currently recognized Chief Sorcerer (since no-one wants to recognize his peer from the Colonies), and the Supreme Mugwump of the ICW.

Hogwarts Transfiguration Professor, Minerva 'Minnie' McGonagall, also holds a number of such prestigious titles though this fact is less known. McGonagall holds the coveted position as the Head of House Gryffindor (to her eternal graying hair), Scribe for the ICW's Global Transfigurations Guild, Auditor for Transfiguration Masteries in Greater Britannia, and final is herself Dumbledore's Deputy Headmistress and runs the day to day workings of Hogwarts when Dumbledore remained unavailable due to his other duties as Chief Warlock or Supreme Mugwump.

Unfortunately, having a current roster of nearly eight hundred and fifty students whom need their schedules cleared and approved, seven years of lesson plan revisions based on the Department of Education's recent reforms (by removing ANOTHER few critical, yet difficult spells from the curriculum across all classes), visitations with the new Muggleborns, ensuring the House chosen for the new first years is duly recorded, AND ensuring Dumbledore didn't abscond with her Ogden's Finest (again) left her more overworked than any single one of her fellow professors at any given time, but most especially on the first day of the year.

Which is why she didn't exactly take exception to the 'emergency' a pair of second years tried to approach her with while laden with the five-dozen enrollment forms, eight books, and her bag of catnip on her way to her office with plans to lock herself in for the evening. The saddest part is the last time she ignored such warnings from the very same members of her House, one of her lion cubs ended up in the Hospital Wing for nearly a week after encountering the possessed and deadly form of her former colleague Quirinus Quirrell who had the spirit of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named sticking out of the back of his head.

Perhaps the saying about not being able to teach old dogs new tricks applies to cat animagi as well?

Hermione tried to tell the overworked witch that their emergency might be a matter of life or death, but the grey haired Head of Gryffindor already left at a brisk pace to finish the beginning of the year paperwork still sitting four and a half feet tall on her desk before classes could begin and push her farther behind than she already was.

By the time they finished the extremely brief (and one would say rudely curt) conversation with their Head of House, the entire staff table sat empty (along with almost the entire Great Hall). Ron tried convincing the only Prefect he actually knew the name of (his brother Percy) of the urgent need to speak with her, but Ron's pompous older brother just informed them to drop the matter until the morning as they had been instructed.

The duo (or one-shy trio) attempted to get in to see the Headmaster before curfew. Frustratingly, the guardian gargoyle refused to budge. He informed them, none too politely, (following an over-heard mumble by the young Weasley about 'dumb rocks') that the Headmaster would be unavailable till he finished the ICW paperwork that piled up over the last two weeks of Summer Hols.

The pair of dejected and worried Gryffindors barely slept that night for worry over whatever fate might have befallen their missing companion.

Early the next morning, Ron and Hermione met in the Gryffindor Common Room promptly at eight when the second year curfew ended to see if either had any news about their missing friend.

"Any news?" Hermione asked, her brown eyes darting around the room behind Ron to see if Harry only followed the red-headed boy down the stairs from the Boy's Dorms.

Ron's blood-shot and saddened gave her all the answer she needed. "I'm sorry 'Moine, he never showed up last night..."

The bush-haired girl frowned at the new nick-name, but decided to address it later. "Did you ask if anyone else heard from him?"

Ron nodded, blinking a few times to get the sleep out of his eyes.

"What about the Twins? They always seem to know everything that goes on around here?"

"I asked. They dashed up to their dorm for a minute, but said he's not in the school anywhere when I asked last night."

Hermione chewed her bottom lip as she thought, casting her eyes around the room again in a vain attempt at divining the location of their missing compatriot.

She finally gave up after a few seconds and heaved a depressed sigh, frowning and worrying her lip again in irritation.

Hermione's eyes saddened at the notably missing member of their trio before swiftly glinting with a determination Ron felt all too familiar with. She took a second deep breath (drawing Ron's eyes South, though thankfully she didn't notice) and her nostrils flared. The glint that flared in her eyes sent the red-head back a step without even noticing and Ron shouldered his rucksack. The last time he saw that look on Hermione's face was minutes before the trio fully gave in to their decision to rescue the Philosopher's Stone themselves after Professor McGonagall refused to believe it might be in danger.

Ron followed with a little trepidation after his bushy-haired friend, determined to find someone to help mount a rescue for the missing Potter, but still more than a little wary of the Longbottom's Potion worthy explosion that looked like it might explode any time now.

- 5 - 5 - 5 -

Harry ended up bedding down on Dudley's pile of cast-offs around midnight when he realized no-one would be coming.

He gave long thoughts to using his original holly and phoenix feather wand a few times to get the notice of the Ministry, but the haunting echo of the letter warning of expulsion echoed in his ears every time the thought crossed his mind. Would he still be expelled if he did magic to save himself? Would the Ministry at least give him a chance to explain? How exactly do they define 'casting around Muggles'? Who uses an owl with a penchant for breaking through expensive glass windows and assaulting people anyway?

Magical fairy tales, Harry discovered to his nauseating horror, are nothing like Muggle counter-parts Harry learned in bits and pieces over the length of his childhood. He certainly had the answer to the difference between Aesop's Fables and the Brother's Grimm. Aesop's Fable always had such uplifting messages and life lessons. The Brother's Grimm gave life lessons through absolute and horrible worst-case scenarios.

Grimm definitely fit the two authors in a very sickening way.

Hansel and Gretal, as in the Muggle version, found themselves abandoned by the children's destitute father for lack of money to buy them food. There the similarities ended with the exception of their trip through the forest. In the magical version, their entire 'House' became this destitute when his young virginal daughter eloped (Gretal) with her slightly older brother (Hansel) to escape the marriage her father negotiated for her to a wealthy neighbor (along with the dowry he received with enough money to keep his farm at the time). Their father hoped for a second son when Gretal was born to help work the fields and bring in more income, but managed to at least find a use for her through her bride-price provided she remained unsoiled. Her father did love his children dearly and fully approved of their relationship however and left the pair alone in the woods instead of joining him at the gallows for his transgressions against a Noble House.

The two young teens, Hansel being barely older than Harry himself and Gretal actually being younger, wandered for days on the last of her family's foods. Hansel's father technically disowned him as soon as he discovered the marriage to prevent the Noble's wrath should the pair of children manage to escape and settle down. On the third day the siblings stumbled hungry and broken upon a kindly spinster witch in a cottage who provided them both with food and shelter.

Harry's horror came from the largest aberration from the Muggle storyline that came next. After a few weeks time, the seemingly kind old witch tricked both teens into an oath that required them to help her gather and prepare foodstuffs if they wanted to continue living with her. Her honey coated words spoke of a dire winter to come and needing reassurance that the young married couple would not abandoned an old woman after eating all of her food.

To their regret, Hansel and Gretal readily accepted and life progressed well. To the joy of the entire home (but especially the old witch), the then twelve year old Gretal began showing signs of her pregnancy. The witch informed the joyous yet worried couple that she spent many, MANY years throughout her long youth as a midwife and would be happy to prepare the needed potions for a healthy magical child to be born.

Despite both being Magicals, both Hansel and Gretal were from a poor family and their loving father couldn't afford more than home-schooling for their duo (one of the main reasons they fell in love since the nearest neighbors were hours away), so the pair were unaware that the strange potions the witch prepared using various ingredients might have a more nefarious purpose. The hairs, fingernails, drops of blood, scrapes of skin, and other strange ingredients she collected from the joyful expecting parents seemed all the better as Gretal practically glowed in a near-constant state of good health through her entire pregnancy.

The true wickedness of the old dark witch only revealed itself far too late for young Hansel and Gretal.

- 5 - 5 - 5 -

Creatures, unlike humans, tend to live a rather simplistic existence.

Creatures eat, they drink, they crap, and they live. Some animals have an existence defined by months, some by years, some by decades, and the worthy few by centuries. Magical creatures tend to be much the same as their non-magical counterparts. That is, excluding those 'creatures' such as banshees, werewolves, vampires, and similar Beings.

The creature currently living on the rather cold, damp room lived such an existence. It's life would be measured in decades and though its thoughts tended to lean towards the simplistic the creature could conceivably be classified as a Being if one were so inclined.

Emotion. The simplest difference between a Creature and a Being can be explained through emotions. Beings have the mental aptitude to repress, ignore, and control their emotional responses to their environment. This is one of the main focal points as to why intelligent, thinking animals such as dragons, phoenixes, basilisks, and hippogryffs are classified (correctly) as creatures, not beings. Some unique or ancient creatures are able to ascend by what is widely considered sheer chance to a state of being, yet these tend to be few and very far between.

Yet such an oddity lay curled up in its room sleeping peacefully and continuing to ignore the flood of happiness, sadness, and rage that threatened to overwhelm the pacifistic looking creature through its waking hours. Some days the emotions would overpower the creature's will and it would scream vengeance, pain, and loneliness to the Heavens.

For years and years, possibly even decades, the creature stayed true to form. Neither living nor dying, merely squeaking out a meager survival.

On this particular day something changed as the creature lay sleeping. A flood of words, thoughts, and images burned through the creatures mind like a wild-fire. The helpless creature spasmed and lurched around the small room with increasing ferocity for hours on end, drawing the attention of those in nearby that cried out in glee that their hated companion finally succumbed once again to the rage of its existence.

When the creature finally stopped spasming hours later, the other occupants backed away in fear of the burning purples flames that replaced the creature's eyes.

The Hunt is on.

- 5 - 5 - 5 -

Ron knew no matter what happened this would turn ugly quickly when his eyes caught a familiar (and extremely hated) head of platinum blonde hair adoring an aristocratic, sneering visage.

Malfoy.

"Well if it isn't the mudblood and the blood traitor..." drawled the hated and bigoted Slytherin rudely, tossing one of the vilest words in the Wizarding World as casually as you please (after a serendipitous perusal for nearby Faculty). "Where's the other blood traitor of your disgusting little group?" Ron seethed and clenched his fists at the very sight of his hated rival. Strutting around in horribly expensive acromantula silk robes while throwing around his Death Eater father's name like candy. The Malfoy family stood for everything Ronald Billius Weasley stood against.

"Back OFF Malfoy." Hermione growled out, Ron noticed her hand instinctively grasping the wand in the pocket of her robes. The red-headed Weasley applied a great deal of wisdom in stepping slightly away, more to give his friend room to dodge than from fear (though he held more than a little... respect... of the petite witch) when he noticed the barely restrained hatred burning in her almond eyes.

"Shut your trap mudblood," screeched out a puggish girl with an equally demeaning sneer adorning her face. "Why are you even here anyway? Don't you know you aren't wanted?"

"Yeah." grunted out a dour and dull voice.

"What she said." the final member of the Malfoy's entourage of bullies mumbled, cracking his meaty fingers in a threatening manner.

And where would Draco Malfoy go without his merry band of thugs. Pansy Parkinson, the girl standing (as usual) on Draco's left side and half a step back was the one who made the original comment. Her clothes weren't nearly as expensive as her leader's and (despite what she thought) gave her an uppity, desperate appearance. Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, an interchangeable idiot duo were as ugly as they were stupid in Ron's opinion. Considering the two generally held competitions for the slowest, dumbest, and generally incompetent idiot in the school and the less said about their food-stained and haphazardly donned robes the better. Hermione once theorized the reason they always arrived late to breakfast had a lot to do with how long it took them to figure out the buttons on their trousers each morning.

Deciding he should act before the wand now held at Hermione's side went into action, Ron leveled his own glare at the ponce and stepped forward. "Shove of Malfoy!" Ron yelled out, drawing a number of looks from nearby classmates as he gave the blonde haired Malfoy Scion a shove and stomped by to get out before Mount Granger erupted.

Hermione gave the quartet and equally dismissive sniff and started to follow after the retreating back of her friend quickly. The bushy haired girl (though she probably would never tell the red-head in question) felt immeasurably proud of Ron's reaction to Malfoy's normal taunts. A year ago the reckless Gryffindor would have argued forever with his rival and wasted vital time needed to get ahold of Professor McGonagall.

Her eyes however caught the flash of Malfoy's wand and she sprayed his (and his goons) with a plethora of quick-fired spells (thanking Harry's training room even if she rarely visited it) that left the group glued to the wall behind them and painted a bright pink. The scorch mark from Malfoy's misfired hex even protected the duo from retaliation (not to mention the dozen or so witnesses that probably wouldn't admit to anything anyway).

They arrived at her office with a lack of fanfare, completely unaware of the eruptions throughout the Fabled Hogwarts Gossip Network over the prim and proper muggleborn Ms. Granger cursing the Malfoy Scion and the impulsive and anger-driven youngest Weasley's behavior in relation to the same taunting. The rumors and wild theories ran rampant until a depressed Ginny Weasley snapped at her gossiping year-mates that she could care less whatever mischief her knuckle-headed brother managed to get into when she didn't even get a chance to meet the duo's best friend.

By the time a frantic McGonagall practically ran through the Great Hall to the Faculty Table for a magically silenced conversation with the suddenly pale Headmaster, the rumor of the Boy-Who-Lived pulling a vanishing act spread through the House tables like a raging, uncontrolled wildfire.

The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws really couldn't care less (few of them missed the chance for the juicy gossip), though a handful of the more... morbid Ravenclaws held a pseudo verbal battle over increasingly ludicrous and life threatening situations that the young Potter might have got himself in to. The Slytherins, for the most part (Malfoy's little club of Jr. Death Eaters being an obvious exception) also had little thought or input on the situation of Bumbledore's little Golden Boy. Most of the green-trimmed members of Slytherin's House that actually gave Harry Potter half a thought gave vindictive smirks over whatever trouble the young Gryffindor would find himself in as they still felt slighted over the loss of the House Cup in the prior year via Bumbledore's blatant favoritism.

Of the members from Harry's own House, the remaining Weasleys suddenly found themselves the center of attention as their housemates pressured them incessantly for news on their star seeker due to Ron's friendship with the boy and the Twins being his Quidditch team-mate. Only a shy, quiet second year had any news whatsoever (more even than Harry's two best friends Hermione or Ron), but when he tried to tell his new 'family' what he saw the camera wielding boy's voice became drowned by the deluge of questions flooding the floundering Weasleys.

Headmaster Dumbledore confirmed the rumor of the now missing hero of the Wizarding World when he stood and announced that classes were cancelled for the day due to an emergency the staff needed to resolve. All students were escorted to their Common Rooms with a younger member of the staff in attendance while the four Heads of House held a desperate meeting.

The Twins and (surprisingly) Percy gave an honor-guard to the red-eyed Ron and Hermione when they finally returned late in the afternoon. The looks of dejection on their faces and the distinct lack on the Potter Heir told their Housemates everything they needed to know.

Harry Potter is missing.

- 5 - 5 - 5 -

Harry Potter is in fact missing.

Finishing his scrambled eggs, Harry's thoughts churn on the many things he's missing, or just plain missed.

He missed the brilliant ride on the flaming red Hogwarts Express across the beautiful countryside with his friends. He missed seeing the Sorting Hat again and the Opening Feast. He definitely missed his only true friend and companion Hedwig. As of half an hour ago, he also missed the start of the first day of his second year classes.

Mostly, Harry missed his friends and Hedwig. The hollow ache of loneliness blossoming within his chest left Harry feeling weak and lethargic for most of the morning.

Harry's slightly bloodshot eyes give silent testament to just how well he slept on his pile of rags the night before. Nightmares of evil witches, boiling cauldrons, and blood-red stones woke him throughout the night as he unconsciously choked back his screams.

The 'magical' ending to Hansel and Lady Gretal was as abrupt as it was horrible. The VERY evil witch made Gretal eat her own brother (ALIVE) after forcing the poor farmer's boy to kill himself by way of the young couple's vows in the last month of Gretal's pregnancy while the definitely evil witch cast dozens of vile curses on the young girl. When Gretal finally gave birth to a misshapen and demonic little imp, the witch cast dozens more dark spells on the... child before forcing Gretal to eat her own spawn under the first new moon.

The witch, having possessed the child, did the same in turn for its mother before returning to the village and marrying the young noble with her magics, ensnaring the young man with the darkest of arts.

_'... and SHE lived happily ever after. For all eternity.'_

Harry's nightmares centered around the last line of the story and his own recent brush with a seemingly immortal Dark Lord and his own possession of a young woman (at least... in his nightmares).

The book held many annotations throughout the story that pointed out the morals, hazards, and suggestions on survival and avoiding similar fates to the siblings while growing in the Wizarding World. The last annotation in the story was one Harry decided to take to heart for the rest of his life... just in case.

_'Beware the dangers of Magical Vows. Even the most trusted cannot be.'_

Once the dishes from breakfast were cleaned and put away (through liberal use of his spare wand after shattering his tea-cup against the wall when he tried to bypass using it) Harry debated for a long time with himself on whether to stay the day and await rescue or attempt to find civilization. In the end, he idly flipped through a beginner's potion guide that Cloak suggested he purchase during his birthday shopping spree while at the same time practicing his wandless control via a levitating book floating around the room. Crashing into everything might be a more apt description when the book smashed into the side-table a fifth time. The dull text felt about as dry and unappealing as one of Professor Binns' History of Magic lectures. He did learn a great deal about ingredients, their components, and their reactions to other components though.

Having... technically... spent a full ten months learning at the feet of one of the UK's premier Potions Masters, Harry felt more than a little disappointed to realize he learned more in a few hours from a book than he ever did in class. That realization quickly led to another disturbing thought. Less than two months prior he rated Professor Snape as the man he learned the most from in the prior year.

Where did that leave his other teachers?

Harry finally gave up around midnight for a second time and set an alarm charm he learned over the summer to wake him at first light. For probably the thousandth time, regardless of his young age (or possibly in spite of it), Harry realized before bedding down that he had only himself to rely on.

- 5 - 5 - 5 -

As the young Potter slept soundly through the night with a new resolve burning in his chest, dozens of owls left the Hogwarts Owlery. Winging their way to various trusted recipients throughout Britain, England, Scotland, Bulgaria, France, and even Italy, the owls carried missives of great import and ill tidings on the missing young man.

Likewise a tired, hungry, forgotten, and fearful white owl finally managed to snap the cheap metal bars of her cage just as the early morning sun's days cast their light upon the now parked Hogwarts Express somewhere in London.

Whereas the other pair of owls that left, and immediately returned, would be unable to locate the missing Potter, THIS owl would find her human.

Hedwig's emerald eyes gleamed in the early morning's light before she swiftly took flight.

It is time to Hunt.

Her Pet needed her.

- 5 - 5 - 5 -


	6. Home isn't always where the heart is

Disclaimer: I don't own it unless I do. Oh, and I'm poor which means I don't own pretty much all of it.

- Chapter 6 - Home isn't always where the heart is.

After the second day, Harry gave up on any sort of rescue, packed his tent (while shoving some food-stuffs in his rucksack), and left.

He didn't have any sort of direction planned, not really, but he knew that with Lady Winter bearing down within the next few months North wouldn't be advisable. In the end, he spun around a few times with his wand out and urged it to find him a place to go. He'd already tried summoning the Knight Bus at least a half a dozen times (once he remembered the bloody thing) and just... felt like his wand pulled a little more in a south-eastern direction.

Since he didn't really have any other plans other than 'not North', south-east seemed like the way to go. Not knowing who or what might have brought him here, though his suspicions did center around a googly-eyed little imp, Harry took the precaution to only only travel while wrapped in the comforting warmth of his father's cloak. After dinner on day three of his exile, he shredded and sewed up one of Dudley's nicer looking old tshirts for a makeshift bandanna to keep at least some of the sweat out of his eyes.

Given the high levels of humidity, Harry felt comfortable in the assumption that he at least remained _somewhere_ in the British Isles. Hopefully. Maybe. That or Greece.

Being rather accustomed to going LONG periods without meals after his rearing in the Dursley household, Harry started skipping lunch on the third day to keep his feet moving (though he usually munched on something leftover from breakfast). The... pull towards the south-east seemed to get stronger as he walked. Harry really didn't want to know if following the pull would end up to be something bad, but he trusted his instincts.

So it continued day after day under roughly the same schedule. At first light he consumed a large breakfast, broke down the tent, donned his bandanna and cloak, then set off. Around six or seven each night he whipped out his spare wand to setup the tent in the blink of an eye, had a healthy dinner, studied in the training room for a few hours, then bunked down with either the Brothers Grimm or his Grandmother's Book. Around ten or eleven he called it a night before setting out once again.

The odd sense of... freedom and... awe... dawned in realization once he really began his march and within hours of first setting out he slowed his formerly hurried pace to just enjoy the scenery and beauty of Nature around him. A year ago at the opening feast, Dumbledore said that music may just be more powerful than any Magic taught at Hogwarts. At the end of the year, the old man said that love may be the most powerful force on the planet. By the second day of his journey, Harry decided that Nature must supersede or rival the power of either or both.

The sense of freedom remained, but the awe died on the third day as he approached dusk. Now instead of being in awe of Nature's majesty, Harry treated the world around him more akin ti the boa constrictor he freed once from the zoo. Beautiful to watch, deadly to touch. He did however get a rather nice pair of boots out of the ordeal.

Harry's only warning came from a rustling beside him in the bushes before pain exploded from the back of his head.

"EEEEEEE!" With deceptive speed and completely ignoring the magical cloak that should have been hiding Harry's presence, the horrid creature that burst from the foliage swung the gristle and grime covered bone for another swing at Harry's head.

The only recently unused skills hard earned from years of "Harry Hunting" with his cousin acted instinctively and Harry felt (and SMELLED) the tip of the two-foot long bone pass within inches of his nose as his head whipped backwards. Frantically dodging his attacker, Harry only managed to get a good look at the... THING when it managed to bounce the obviously reinforced bone off the large roots of a nearby tree. The creature looked to be a mix, possibly a cross-breed, of a goblin and a house-elf. His attacker had an elongated nose reminiscent of the goblins, but the much greener and smoother (hairless) skin of the house-elves.

Harry's concern at that moment wasn't really what the thing might be, but how to get rid of it. A blastwave left Harry's hand and launched the little demon a good ten feet away in desperation when the wrinkle-faced attacker pulled a wicked and serrated knife as big as Hedwig's perch from its grimy sleeve. The young wizard blasted the little beasty again for good measure and had to ignore his natural curiosity when the damp red cap worn by the little beasty hit the ground with a deep crimson splatter mark. Considering the... whatever it is... Gobelf! Considering the gobelf bounced right back to his feet with the intent to kill clear on the creature's face, Harry realized he only really had one option in this situation.

The Law of Nature.

Kill or be killed.

Survival of the fittest.

Even while knowing at least a half dozen spells that could solve the matter quickly, Harry never drew his wand for the simplicity of never having the chance to think of it. Yellowed teeth were snapping in his face before he finished waving his arm to knock the creature back a second time and he kicked out hard on its chest to give himself some space. The gobelf grabbed its bone truncheon on the run with clear intent to bludgeon Harry's head until it caved in. Harry's strange sense of luck left the creature focusing all of its efforts on Harry's head and face instead of the more easily damaged arms, legs, or even his chest.

Considering the beasty stood almost to Harry's full height and wielded a club longer than Harry's arm, the young wizard found the creature's behavior odd. He did feel rather grateful that apparently, regardless of being fully clothed in a crude blouse and pants, the gobelf remained rather subpar in its attacks and probably intelligence as well. A strong wandless Leviosa had the same effect on the gobelf that it did on Harry's tent-poles and it launched headfirst into a nearby stone outcropping at terminal velocity.

Regardless of the actual speed Harry launched his now deceased opponent, it remained _terminal_ velocity.

The now crushed head remained firmly lodged in the outcropping to end the fight, leaving a pair of expensive leather boots hanging at eye level to the young Potter as he caught his breath with his hands on his knees.

Boots that looked to be about Harry's size.

The only reason he kept the boots (besides how much his fighting felt hindered by the near-constant ache in his feet from massive blisters rubbed to a near hamburger level of raw along the backs of his heels) is that the young boy felt he should give some sort of recognition to the death of whoever owned the black leather combat boots before said person's run-in with the demented and deadly little Gobelf.

So whereas the exhilarating sense of freedom remained, Harry became weary of his surroundings and felt all the better for it. His nightly studies shifted from the upcoming year's curriculum to spells that might help him survive better when facing the minions of Nature that held no respect for the magics of his father's invisibility cloak. He silenced his feet as he walked. He found a charm that shifted his scent about eight feet away after falling unconscious for half a hour when he tried to cast the N.E.W.T. Level spell that would actually remove his scent.

Mother Nature became his Professor and Nature itself his classroom. The term 'Mother Nature' made so much more sense through the course of his lessons. She provided everything Her children needed to live: water, food, shelter, and trials. Like any good parent, Mother Nature did not just want her children to survive, but to thrive! A cruel Mistress to be sure, but Harry found each of her children to be species as a WHOLE, not any one individual. And by the fifth day, he understood the 'Rule of the Wild' that muggle scientists rave about far better than even during his epiphany against the first gobelf. (Which Quirell's DADA book indicates was actually a 'Red Cap', but Harry liked his name better.)

Rule One: Survival of the Fittest. If you cannot thrive, you will not survive.

Rule Two: Respect Mother Nature. You live in HER backyard.

Rule Three: Don't eat floating, funny looking plums. They make you see some really weird things.

Harry ran across a few more lessons in his journey.

Wild Devil's Snare, Harry learned, is faster, more aggressive, and much more resistant to sunlight than the relatively docile version Professor Sprout used for her traps. It does however make a rather cheery fire when the seemingly weak Incendio spell goes from stove-top gas range level fire to a raging inferno with the fortuitous help of the Fortis enhancement (don't try more than once an hour. It sucks). Gobelfs, or the more subtly named Red Caps, refuse to stop trying to kill him until they died under his wand and, more intriguingly, have a habit of keeping obviously magical items from their victims. Harry is now the proud owner of two fanged frisbees, a half set of gobstones, and a VERY eery serrated dagger with half a dozen blood-letting ridges on the backside, squiggling serpents emblazoned across the full tang of the blade, and a deep red ruby melded into the hilt that only appeared when blood touched the blade.

One of Harry's lessons is funnier as a memory then the frustration of the moment. Like any good parent, Mother Nature does in fact have a sense of humor. This he learned from a pair of rather... insane weasels (reminded him of the Beater-Twins Gred and Forge Weasley), but the experience drove Harry insane with worry until he thought back on it near the end of the sixth day. Harry lost nearly a half-day's travel to the impish little weasel's when they managed to steal his mokeskin pouch from around his very neck before bolting off for parts unknown. The Dark Lord (and gobelf) vanquisher didn't exactly feel proud of having to chase a pair of relatively innocent small woodland creatures for hours on end to get his stuff back. If anyone asked, the raven-haired boy held no plans to EVER tell of that adventure.

Ever.

For any reason.

- 6 - 6 - 6 -

"EEP!"

Striding purposefully back towards his office, the tall black haired Potions Master couldn't even take pride in his current ability to even cow fourth years now with his very presence. The useless twit is a Gryffindor in any case. A pox on the whole bloody house.

What could that BLASTED child have gotten himself in to now?

'Oh please Severus, you're our only hope!' As if I give a whit a out that arrogant busy-body spawn of James Potter!

'Did you hear anything dear boy?' I'm not your 'boy' you deluded, senile, old, demented wanker. Of COURSE I heard something. I hear LOTS of things, not that you EVER do anything about any of it you old fool.

'I must insist dear boy. This is far more important.' So what if the little self-entitled and spoiled rotten little prince managed to get himself kidnapped. Of COURSE Bumbledore's Golden Boy is INFINITELY more important that whatever wave of death Lucius has summoned to bear down on a school full of badly educated children. Its not like as educators the Staff and Headmaster have any responsibility to the welfare and health of the children in their charge.

Merlin forbid! The school has such a WONDERFUL policy against bullying, a LONG history of Professors (usually those from DADA) of NOT assaulting or attempting to kill, sacrifice, or otherwise maim students...

"Ten points from Ravenclaw for running in the halls!" He spat while passing a first year 'claw as he strode towards the dungeons. Severus Snape remained so distracted he completely neglected to take another dozen points from from the distracted child when his jaw dropped open in shock.

Where was I? Oh yes. Then the whole bloody STONE last year. 'It's for the Greater Good my boy!' Greater Good my wrinkled pasty white arse you old deluded codger!

If I was a worthless waste of space and offense against all that is right and good in the world and felt like everyone on the planet owes me they're undying love and loyalty, where would I go?

Severus Snape snorted as he literally kicked open the door to his residence, only dropping his masks after triple checking the four dozen wards around his bedchambers.

What a wonderful bloody start to another horrid bloody school year around horrid little dunderheaded cretins better used as potions ingredients or dropped in a bloody crematorium.

The only way the start to this year could possibly be worse would probably involve the Weasel's flying car and a complete lack of any logic or thought.

6 - 6 - 6 -

(September 8, 1992)

On the seventh day, Harry Potter felt hope rise in his chest for the first time since beginning his journey that his exile was finally coming to a close.

He finally found civilization.

As much as Harry yearned for human interaction, after his week-long sojourn in the wilderness, the (only recently) cautious wizard steered around a rather... creepy looking house jutted out of the ground in silent and meaningful defiance of physics, gravity, sanity, and good taste that could only possibly exist through generous abuse of magic. His paranoia over the effects of the strange pull steadily grew over the last few days and instead of seeming to be a gentle, homely place, the ramshackle architect's nightmare reminded Harry instead of the evil witches tower from Rapunzel. The... stout (plump) witch whose hair screamed that she must be some relation of Ron's stood in the garden alternating between blasting foot-tell men from her yard and hanging laundry out to dry. Flashbacks to the nightmares he had from Hansel and Lady Gretal bouncing around his currently invisible head nearly gave his feet wings to get the hell away.

Especially after passing a strange house that looked like a giant rook pulled straight from a giant sized chess set a few miles back. Harry SWORE he saw a massive god-sized hand hover over the building for a second as if considering whether moving the Rook would be a good next move.

The town he arrived at near dusk, if it could even be called such, seemed rather small though certainly quaint and homely. Less than fifty cottages and houses dotted the small community and Harry only saw a single bar that seemed to double as the town inn.

The fact that he could SEE that the building near the center of town is the only bar due to the lack of any similar buildings should explain why Harry didn't consider the little village as large enough to earn the name 'town'. Hogsmeade holds more acreage and Harry could see all four sides of Hogmeade from only a couple dozen yards up on his broom miles away from the Wizarding Village.

The ancient little signpost, rotted wooden street signs painted by white-wash, and a distinct lack of anything similar to an automobile were indicators to the young Potter that he managed to find a Wizarding Village. Especially since nearly a third of the cottages he could see in the waning dusk appeared to be thatch-roofed, rotting straw and all.

_'Welcome to Godric's Hollow'_

Harry gasped when he realized the significance that such a name held. Godric's Hollow. The village made famous the night he lost his parents over a decade before on Halloween night. Harry's heart thumped in his chest like a massive drum when he thought about being able to actually see the home he should have grown up in.

Godric's Hollow. The place where, save Voldemort's mad quest to kill a child of all things, Harry would have grown up with a family. Happy, he hoped, but would never... could never really know. The emerald eyed boy fell on his rump bonelessly for a full half hour after reading the sign. Dozens of scenes from his childhood imagination started playing in his mind like and auto-reel. His mother, with her equally emerald eyes and flaming red hair, would cheerfully call him in from playing in the yard while humming a gentle tune and finishing a dinner that for the elder male Potter and Harry. Cuddling up to the back of a big dog in his playpen as the animals warm cost and soft purrs lulled him to sleep like a lullaby. Chasing the family cat around on a broom while his mother pulled her hair out and his father laughed uproariously. So many perfectly surreal and possibly impossible moments in life that only an orphan could imagine.

So much happiness and love Voldemort ripped from him in flashes of hateful green.

It took Harry a good five minutes to stabilize his pounding heart and banish the dreams of a life he would never, could never, know. On lead-filled legs and with burning watery eyes, the Boy-Who-Lived stumbled into town like an inferni. So distracted he neither noticed nor cared that the spell hiding his footprints had long since faded. The pull became nearly insistent as it dragged him towards the center of town. He only stopped and resisted the pull to gaze upon a beautiful stone-work World War II monument of a battered Allied tank covered in names, completely out of place in a town the held naught that a Muggle might recognize.

As Harry approached the beautiful, yet inappropriate, monument the stone and metalwork shifted and warped, transforming before his wide eyes.

It scene looked like someone ripped a scene straight from a family photo album. The serene and utterly beautiful mother held a wide-eyed child with a look of absolute adoration, sitting comfortably next to the man with his arm around her shoulder and giving the young baby the same look of unconditional love as his wife.

Harry knew they were husband and wife as well as he knew the emerald eyes on the mother and the baby's faces. As well as he knew the mop of messy black hair on the father's head and the strong cheekbones on his face. Harry reached up to touch the cheekbones mirrored on the woman before him, the strong chin of the gentle, smiling man.

Without even thinking of the danger he might be placing himself in, Harry swept off his invisibility cloak to have nothing blocking the beautiful, wonderful, and heart-breaking sight laid out before him. He wanted to burn the image on to his very soul as he drank in the love shown so incredibly before him like a desert wanderer cherishes his first glass of water.

He might have stood for second, minutes, hours, or even days. He really didn't know. Just like with the Mirror of Erised (left completely unprofessionally and dangerously in an UNLOCKED room of all things) last year, the orphaned Potter drank in the scene of HIS family with every fiber of his being.

"They were such a beautiful family." A soft, kind voice spoke from beside him with an odd accent, the girl having walked up while Harry lived, but for only a few minutes, amongst the dreams of what might have been. His watery eyes turned to look at the old-style robes adorning her young frame, but her eyes remained locked on the beautiful scene. "Me Mum provided the photo for the statue ya know."

"She did?" He asked, unable to mask the awe and wonder in his voice.

"Course!" she cackled with a snort, "Mum and Lady Lily were pretty close. The idiots at the Ministry kept coming by for years and telling us we had to add that bloody scar the poor bloke has now. Mum 'n the rest wouldn't have any it. The Potters were good to us low-folk and we wouldn't be doing right by them if we added such a thing."

Harry nodded his agreement to her sentiment, though curious what she meant by low-folk. Until he turned eleven, Harry always felt proud of his scar due to how unique and 'cool' it looked. Then he found out where, when, and HOW he received it. Now it remained as a cruel reminder to be faced in the mirror each morning of the life and family he lost. "A cruel reminder..." Harry mumbled aloud, giving testament to his thoughts.

He saw her nod sharply and grin. "So haven't seen you 'round these parts a'fore boyo?" She phrased it like a question and threw Harry for a loop. He tried to place her accent, but he found he couldn't. The way she spoke was just... unique. Old if he really had to place it, like the memory of times past. She spun to face him with a questioning look, causing Harry to unconsciously run a hand over his scar before remembering the bandanna stuck over his head and hiding said scar.

"Um... I'm... a little lost..." He finally mumbled after licking his suddenly dry, not really able to say why he ended up in Godric's Hollow since he didn't really know himself.

She grinned wickedly, the setting sun alighting her golden brown eyes in a twinkling manner Harry always associated with Professor Dumbledore yet with a... feral undertone that just screamed 'predator'. "Ain't we all boyo? Lost in 'da changing times we be."

He didn't really know why, but he matched her mirthful chuckle. She seemed really nice.

Her eyes sparkled in mirth again and for some unknown reason she spun around like a top before dropping in a mocking curtsey. "Anabeth Mallory, at your service milord."

Harry gave a faint smile before it dulled. She seemed like she could be a friend... and... Harry didn't have much luck with those lately... He didn't even realize he spaced out a little until she raised her eyebrow at him, still mid-curtsy. "Oh! Um... Dudley... Dudley James." He didn't give his real name because... honestly... too many people heard his name and just sort of... assumed they knew everything about him.

Her eyebrows switched places (a trick Harry knew he could never pull off) and she extended her hand. "James huh? Weird. Picked you for a lost Potter I did."

"How come?" He asked curiously, knowing that with his hair covered, silver frames to his father's traditional black, and the missing scar he didn't exactly look like the only Potter people knew off.

She poked him in either cheek before flicking his chin. "The looks! You got them Potter looks..." She sort of trailed off for a second before her eyes widened in excitement. "OH! Are you a Black?" The family's atrocities, not the least of which involved his parents, flashed through Harry's mind and he gave Anabeth a dark look. "Oh... touchy subject? Sorry boyo..."

"Sorry..." He muttered, not wanting to offend the pleasant girl.

She flopped her hand around negligently. "Naw. It's notin' to concern ye'self wit'. They were all berms 'cept Siri. Mum still wonders whether he ACTUALLY got Imperius'ed. Them's was brothers they were."

"Who?"

The young blonde-haired witch gave him a look to ask if he is daft or something. "Duh. James 'n Siri. Potter 'n Black. The Terrible Twosome. The Class of '79 Playboy Pair?..." She frowned a little, biting her lip in a manner that caused a pang to stab through Harry's chest uncomfortably. That habit just screamed Hermione. "... Have you been living under a rock or somethin'?" She asked curiously, scrunching her nose and peering at Harry like a strange mouse in a lab.

"Um... I only found out about magic when I turned eleven..." Harry mumbled self-consciously, more than aware for not the first time just how little he knew about his family. He certainly knew more now than he did before reading Gran's book, but...

Her eyes widened and her mouth went agape. "So... You're a new blood then boyo?" She asked with a little shock on her face.

Harry's head cocked to the side curiously. "New blood?"

She rolled her eyes. "Lemme guess Hogwarts?"

He nodded with a little trepidation unsure why his new... acquaintance looked so perturbed and annoyed.

"You'd be known as a muggleborn or a mudblood there boyo. Whatever 'dem nobles be callin' 'em 'dese days. We low-folk call it like it is we do. First blood. Hogs-wash for keepin' da' family magics, but still useful." Harry couldn't be sure whether he should be offended for Hermione or not at the term 'useful', but at least understood the girl wasn't throwing around the typical Pureblood arrogance after having read his Gran's book.

"Um... Low-folk...?..." He asked, hoping he wouldn't commit some sort of social faux-pas by asking what she meant by that statement, but the phrase felt completely unfamiliar.

Her eyes rolled again, a common habit if Harry hazarded a guess, but he really didn't feel offended. For one her friendly smile never vanished and for another she seemed... exasperated, not annoyed of offended. "Ugh... Um... Lemme take a guess. You're either a brainiac or come from 'da old money, right?"

Harry nodded slowly as he thought of the massive pile of galleons sitting in his vault at that very moment with a confused look plain on his face.

"Figured. Only be two types of new bloods get in ta' Hogwarts nowadays. Either you be rich and the Ministry tries to bleed 'jer parents dry or 'jer smart. Like... WAY smart. Lady Lily be one of 'dose." She paused, her eyes dulling slightly as she chewed the side of her lip and looked over the Monument again. "Din'na used to be like 'dat 'ja know. Used to be 'dey took any who could swing a staff or wand."

"I'm sorry." The response was instinctive. Harry couldn't help himself. He hated it when people were upset, but most especially when it was his fault. He wasn't really sure it was this time, but for some reason the way she said it made him feel like it was his fault.

She shook her head and took a deep breath with her eyes closed, causing an involuntary reaction in Harry with the way the sun's final days highlighted the well-developed young woman's form. He felt... odd for a second and just sort of stared.

"What I mean is... Well us low-folk come in all shapes and sizes I guess. Mostly first bloods, half-bloods, and Beings that the Ministry barred from attending Hogwarts or the other 'elite' schools."

Harry's eyes widened and he gulped. "Barred? As... as in... Banned?" He asked, disgusted by the thought.

She nodded solemnly. After a few seconds of rather uncomfortable silence she huffed and the grin came back in full-bloom. "Well 'nough of the depressing crap. The Ministry 're a bunch'a berks anyway. The moron chi'drin runnin 'da place don't know their heads from 'dere arses. 's the reason Godric's Hollow n'er joined 'ja know." With a cheeky grin she completely dismissed the the governing body of the United Kingdom as irrelevant with a rather irreverent shrug. "Works better for us 'ja know boyo. WE actually learn magic, not that wand-crap you Ministry types do."

Harry blinked, again thinking he should feel insulted on... somebody's behalf, but in this instance he had no idea who. The Founders maybe? "Um... okay." He finally said to at least acknowledge that she spoke, though he hadn't the foggiest what she meant.

She rolled her eyes indulgently again. "You know boyo... People gonna think you're slow if you can't are-ti-cu-late better den dat." Now THIS time Harry KNEW he should be offended! On his OWN behalf. Before he could rebuff her statement though, she got right in his face and her predatory grin returned ten-fold an she seemed to... exhume a sense of deadly intent that made Harry flinch for half a second as the emotions steam-rolled over him nearly as strong as Cloak did. Keyword...?

Almost.

Harry's friendly demeanor vanished and his wands flipped out of their holsters as he took a step back to meet... whatever threat she might pose.

She grinned in approval and threw Harry a wink before returning right back to her carefree demeanor, absolutely throwing Harry for a loop. Anabeth's behavior made Harry think of the capricious Fae his grandmother described in her books, whose very attitudes and personalities shifted with the very winds.

In shorter terms, Harry James Potter will never understand the female mind.

"So you wanna see it?" She asked mischievously, her golden brown eyes twinkling again.

"See what?" Harry asked after a moment's hesitation, forgoing his usual fill-word so he didn't hear how slow he might be again.

"Potter Manor!"

- 6 - 6 - 6 -

The search for Harry Potter appeared to be a near-constant exercise in futility.

Hermione and Ron researched and performed dozens of tracking and divining spells that all proved to be absolutely and utterly useless. Every result came back inconclusive (a magically impossibility as far as the Librarian, Madam Pince, was concerned), if their friend was intentionally hiding his presence it could only be using blood magic at this point. A banned subject with few books and fewer practitioners these days. A couple of meetings with Professor McGonagall proved to be equally as disappointing. The professors and Aurors prowling the school remained equally baffled.

The Aurors managed to arrive on day four after someone leaked the story to the Daily Prophet about the disappearance of the Boy-Who-Lived. Instead of actually DOING something, the Head Auror spent nearly three hours attempting to force a confession out of Hermione for kidnapping the missing boy hero. Only the intervention of both Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall allowed the tear-streaked girl a reprieve, though it didn't save her from being force-fed a near-lethal dose of Veritaserum and answering dozens of meaningless questions. They even gave her a fine and a warning for breaking the Statute of Secrecy before she even knew she was a witch!

The Slytherin Quidditch Team strutted around the school like conquering champions, knowing without Gryffindor's Star Seeker, the House Cup is practically already theirs.

Yet life went on. Classes were held as usual and other than the presence of a token force of Aurors, nothing seemed to be any different for the majority of the students. To their horror and VERY reluctantly, the Gryffindor Quidditch Team took on a rather arrogant, rude, and annoying little snot as Harry's replacement for Seeker during Saturday's tryouts. With the first game of the season only a few short weeks away, they didn't have much if a choice. The Team Captain, Oliver Wood, could be seen bursting into comedic levels of tears and depression at random times; he REALLY loved Quidditch. Not that it stopped him from raging in anger at Harry's 'abandonment' of the team and swearing the black-haired missing wizard would hold no place on the team should he make a return.

The fact that the swaggering braggart chosen as Harry's replacement happened to be one of Wood's best friends had nothing to do with it.

There was one definite oddity to the week though. For the first time in her life, the grades of one Hermione Jane Granger slipped for a few days. (Due in no small part to a slight mental breakdown after three hours of Stinging Hexes and Truth Serum.)

Deciding after a week that she had done all she could to find her missing friend however, Hermione dejectedly returned to the safety of her books and striking up an unusual... companionship with fellow second year Daphne Greengrass as the young black-haired girl spent as much time in the library as Hermione did. The reason their companionship remained such an oddity revolved around Hermione's status as a Gryffindor and Daphne's own status as a Slytherin. Two students that, in theory, should be bitter rivals.

Yet, despite the best efforts of such legends in their collective fields such as Albus Way-To-Many-Names Dumbledore, Severus The-Bat-Of-The-Dungeons Snape, Minerva The Kitten McGonagall, the absolutely useless Gilderoy Lockhart, and the equally (or even more so...) useless Sybil Trawley, Harry's location remained unknown. The only thing they COULD confirm was that Harry Potter still lived. Any other spells they tried or places they visited in hopes of finding the missing Potter always returned the same results.

None.

On the fifth day they called in Madam Pince (the only person alive that read every book within the Hogwarts famous library) and tried to theorize exactly HOW Harry remained untraceable as opposed to the impossibility of a twelve year old scarcely trained wizard evading the efforts of some of the best magical minds alive today. Hours later, deep into yet another long night, they agreed Harry had to first and foremost be behind Unplottable Wards, the Fidelius Charm, or (in a more frightening theory put forward by Snape) Harry remained behind the powerful wards of one of the old family manor homes.

Not one of them thought to inform Harry's guardians that he might be missing as, frankly, they are just Muggles.

The Daily Prophet, at the (financially inspired) urging of Malfoy Senior, found a perfect solution for the country's depression over their estranged Hero. Instead of offering assistance, trying to form search parties, or any else productive and helpful, the Prophet decided to subtly (at first) and then much more blatantly theorize on a plethora of darker and darker reasons why the upcoming Dark Lord Potter might be hiding himself from the careful eyes of the ever vigilant Ministry.

It remained Lucius Malfoy's opinion, quickly shared by the recently elected (and easily bribed) Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge, that Harry must have left to perform any number of nefarious deeds and dark rituals available to an untrained and unsupervised Heir to such ancient family secrets.

A sad way to honor a boy whose parents died to save the entire world and the only living Scion of a Most Ancient and Most Noble House to be sure.

Back at Hogwarts, the frantic Headmaster could be found at almost any time of day clutching a hand-sized ball of polished red steel.

As long as the Blood Wards remained intact, Harry Potter yet lived.

- 6 - 6 - 6 -

Harry could only nod mutely to Anabeth's question, whatever words he might have come up with lost and choked in his throat as a sense of longing with the strength of twelve giants swept over his body and sent goosebumps down the length of his arms and straight up his spine.

Anabeth raised her eyebrow again and gave him a slightly worried look, but nevertheless spun on her heel six times before setting off in the exact direction Harry had been traveling prior to his unexpected stop at the family memorial.

Harry approached the house on even more leaded feet until the once beautiful two-story cottage came in to view. The pull seemed completely insistent now, coming from the aged and vine-covered cottage at the end of the lane.

Harry gulped as they came close enough to see the house. From the ivy and vines crisscrossing the grounds, it remained obvious that no-one felt willing to repair the damage dealt by Voldemort's wand so many years ago. The front door barely hung on its hinges where the living room could easily been seen and a faint layer of char remained visible in the last of the evening's light. One side of the upper floor had been completely blown off and a tear found its way down Harry's cheek as he caught a glimpse of a small rotted wooden crib through the charred hole.

"Here it is!" Anabeth decried cheerfully, throwing her eyes wide in welcome. Her cheerful demeanor turned to one of absolute horror with the flip of a switch when she turned to stare at the now setting sun. "It... It... Guinevere's bodice!"

Harry perusal of his home lay forgotten as he stepped quickly to Anabeth. "What's wrong?"

Her eyes flittered from side to side as she searched for... something. "I... I... You have to GO! Get away! Quickly!"

Harry drew his spare wand and spun on his heel, searched for whatever threatened his new... acquaintance while backing even closer to Anabeth until the distraught witch bumped into the rusted gate.

"G... ugh... oohhh... GO!" She choked out, her face flush with pain and her eyes fluttering as she bit back a groan. He saw her spasm slightly from the corner of his eye and spun back once more in concern.

Harry clutched his wand tightly and grabbed her... scaly hand, his eyes widening as the blonde-haired, brown eyed girl he'd come to know over the last few hours... transformed... into... something else. Her face, and in fact every piece of skin Harry could see, became covered in dark golden brown scales the color of her eyes. By the time Harry thought to release her hand, Anabeth's clutched desperately at his own with spasms of pain obviously racing through her body.

Harry felt frantic. He had no idea what might be going on. The only people he knew of that transformed at dusk were werewolves! No-one ever said anything about people changing in to snakes and it isn't even the bloody full moon!

"ssIs your body wells?" Harry asked, completely unaware of the slight hiss to his voice nor how his words were, for lack of a better term, translated as he spoke. "sNeed to be ssustaineds...?"

Anabeth's slightly glowing golden brown eyes, now practically camouflaged amongst the leathery, polished scales around her face, widened and she just stared at the boy before her. She... she understood him.

"sYouss sspeaksss...?" the snake-girl asked, her voice laced with fear as her frightened eyes searched anywhere for escape. Especially since Harry's wand remained drawn at his side.

"sWe'ss bees talking by sssunlights." Harry said with a furrowed brow, his eyebrows close enough together to give him a quasi-unibrow.

Anabeth blinked (which caused Harry's head to cock to the side since her... viscous eyelids came from a horizontal position instead of vertical). "sYouss... sspeaksss." She said again, trying (and failing) to get her rampant fear under control while trying (and failing) to convey her shock over meeting a snake-speaker.

She could already feel it happening. The greatest fear of her race and the reason they hunted so many Snake Speakers to extinction over the millennia since the fall of Rome. They were connecting. Her magic and his magic were twisting and entwining until only his would remain, and she would be forever at his beck and call. A slave to his will. A concubine. A plaything.

He would bind her essence and forever own her soul.

Harry felt something too. Both wholly the same as when Hedwig... reached for him in the early months of summer to begin what he recognized from his reading a a familiar bond yet completely and frightfully different. The magics flowing from the strange girl were constricting around him like a boa constrictor, growing ever tighter and tighter until they would never let him go...

"sSSTOPs!" He screamed out and stumbled back to crash on his arse fighting against the constricting, squeezing sense of her wild magic with all his might. "sAna... Sstopss!"

Her eyes became blurry as the magic raced back and forth between the pair of children. The dizzying and nauseous aftermath of her transformation combined with the desperate battle to keep her own identity finally overwhelmed the girl and she collapsed unconscious in a heap.

Harry stared at his unmoving companion and likewise remained still, his magic continuously battling against Anabeth's own even as she lay sleeping. His eyes rolled back into his head for a minute against the pressure before finally forcing it back.

With no place nearby to set up his tent and having no idea where Anabeth might live, Harry looked up at his house before looking back down to the girl who had been so kind to him over the last few hours.

With a grunt of effort, surprised at just how much the petite... snake-girl weighed, Harry lifted her into his arms and the duo entered the house. The battle against her magic started to tire him quickly, but Harry refused to submit. Ten years he submitted against his will without breaking. He would NOT submit now!

Potter Manor.

His house.

Harry couldn't help but smile as they passed through the open doorway.

"I'm finally home."

- 6 - 6 - 6 -

_'WAKE UP!'_

The voice boomed through his head like a hammer on an anvil and the man bounced out of bed with an equally noisy disaster. His sleeping robes caught on his sheets and a doily before he smacked face first on to the cold and unforgiving stone floor.

He felt the blood running from his definitely broken nose and pulled out his new wand to do something he had in no way been capable of this time last year. "Episkey." With an audible crack his nose snapped back into place and another quick spell diluted the mass of swelling that usually accompanies a broken nose.

The man grinned, his eyes twinkling merrily. "I love magic."

_'Whatever. Get moving. It's happening tonight.'_

"Tonight?!" The man cried out fearfully, wholly and completely unready to face the horrors the voice in his head claimed to be coming. He at times wondered if it was worth it to take this blasted job. "But you said we had till Halloween!"

_'I said we MIGHT have till Halloween you simpering blithering idiot!'_ The voice snapped back impatiently. _'Go to the entrance I showed you, set yourself in place, and follow my instructions. We've practiced this.'_

The man nodded, at least a little more confident about the following task. At least they had a plan. Plans are good.

His benefactor decided not to voice the first thing taught in any military strategy training anywhere. Plans never survive contact with the enemy.

A few minutes later the man his way through the hidden portal next to his rooms and tried not to cringe at how expensive it would cost to have his robes dry-cleaned to get out the mass of muck and... other undesirable... things... from his robes. He surprised himself by agreeing with an observation his benefactor made a while back. Such clothes would get him killed one day. "So... You're sure it has to be THAT spell?..." The man whispered aloud, uncertainty brimming in his body.

_'Yes. And you MUST include the Diary. I promise you she will live.'_

He nodded, though still a little uncertain. He'd performed a great deal of... less than savory or necessarily Ministry approved actions over the years, but this one would take the cake.

"How long?" He whispered into the darkness, crouched just behind a massive pair of doors covered in glittering snakes.

_'Just wait. She's close. Remember, you MUST focus all you effort, thoughts, and magic into destroying the abomination AND protecting the girl. Both are vital.'_

"I know. I know." He whispered more than a little petulantly. "Magic is intent. You've beaten it into my skull enough."

_'Here she comes.'_

Sure enough, a faint glow from the point of a wand rounded the corner. A few minutes later the young girl came fully in to view. The man felt disgust rise within him that such an atrocity would be committed against one so young and innocent. The voice never told him which first year bore the artifact and after seeing her, he understood why.

Her flaming red hair gave her light sky tone an almost ethereal complexion, granting an otherworldly beauty on to the young girl that drew the man's attention completely. She fully inherited the beauty her mother once held before seven children turned the near model into a plump, bulging, and disgusting mess. Her bright almond eyes and dark lustful lips however were completely warped and ruined from the magics possessing her. Instead her eyes glowed a wicked flaming and evil crimson and her usually dark lips were as pale as a vampires.

_'Get your mind on the game pedo.' _The voice stated with no small amount of disgust, his feelings about the man's sexual preferences as plain as day.

He nodded. The voice didn't seem to care most times, but this is important.

Heaving a silent sigh when the girl stopped in front of the doors to hiss the password, his lifted his wand and prepared to cast a spell that he never once imagined needing to ever use.

_'Now!'_ The voice called sharply, his accompanied by the screeching of millennia old gears only a few feet away.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The possessed girl didn't even have a chance to react before the spell slammed into her side, thankfully the one clutching the black-bound leather diary like a talisman.

The man held back frightened tears as the girl screamed for nearly a solid hour.

- 6 -6 - 6 -


End file.
